The Color Line
by Zighana
Summary: Dallas becomes the talk of the town when he introduces his new girlfriend to his friends. Racial slurs & ideologies, foul language, sexual themes, mild to moderate violence, Dallas-centric, Dallas/OC; for a MATURE audience. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

**The Color Line**

 _Dallas gets some unwanted attention when he introduces his new girlfriend to his friends._

* * *

 ** _WARNING (Author's Note): This story contains racial slurs and racist ideologies. This story has mentions of the Vietnam War, interracial dating, and the life in the 1960s. This is the 60s, after all, during the most racially charged time for Civil Rights. However, this story DOES NOT CONDONE RACISM. Another note: If you see mainly Italics font in the dialogue, the characters are speaking German. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, Dallas speaks German in this fic. Warnings include: mentions of war, interracial dating, Original Characters of Color, sexual themes, mild to moderate violence, foul language, nudity(?), racist ideologies and of course, backstories involving Dallas Winston. This is a VERY DALLAS-CENTRIC fic, people. Letting you know. Proceed._**

* * *

The closest thing Dallas Winston got to a dialogue about race was when he grew up in Harlem, New York. It was the ghettos; people who were poor, desperate, and all different colors of the multicultural rainbow, would be crammed into the projects to hide white America from the ugliness of prejudice. He and his parents were the handful of white tenants crammed in the multitude of browns and blacks; they were specks of salt in the sea of pepper, oddities that have no business existing where they don't belong.

But they did belong; they were people struggling to survive because they couldn't fit into the mold of American society: middle class, nuclear family, patriotic, white. Dallas's German-Sicilian heritage, low-class income, broken family and slight hatred of American government doesn't quite make the cut; he and his family are lumped together with the other rejects, all struggling to survive in the melting pot known as Harlem.

He was exposed to drugs, crime, sex, and desperation, all through the thin walls of his home. He'd witness someone get murdered from his window, taste the iron from blood as someone gets beaten to a pulp, hear the noises of women's moans as they whore themselves out for money. Despite those moments of despair, there was one thing that remains: love.

He'd witness love at the age of eight, when his mother and father would dance together under the soft glow of candles after their lights got cut off, humming an old tune from their youth while Dallas watches in wonder. He then learned the power of love, the word of sweetness and warmth, radiating from his mother as she'd tell stories of her youth. She was the most important woman in their lives; when she died, Dallas took it pretty hard, but his father took it the hardest.

His father isn't a cold man from Dallas's understanding; he's just stuck in the past. A German immigrant who fled his country in the 30s, he's a man who didn't fit in to this American world of fast pace and ignorance. It didn't help that he still had his accent and struggled with English after 15 years. His wife, Teresa, was the only form of communication he has with the American language; she became his translator and encyclopedia of American society who also did all the grunt work in legal documents and networking. After she died, it was Dallas that took her place.

It wasn't easy being in his shoes, handling adult responsibilities while being a kid. While others played and had fun, Dallas was translating from English to German about legal documents, bills, and something as simple as ordering food at a restaurant. He was the one to force his father into socializing; you could only stay in your home for so long. It took years for his father to finally assimilate into American society and speak perfect English. Despite the steps forward, he was still stuck in his archaic way of thinking.

* * *

" _Don't bring home any darkies, son_."

Dallas spat out his soup.

He was shy of 13, free from his two weeks in the cooler. He and his father are at his favorite restaurant, on a snowy afternoon in the middle of December. His father looks at Dallas with his stern blue eyes.

"What are you talking about?" He asks his father, his cheeks turning red from the embarrassment and the cold.

His father looks out at the window, snarling so much his canines are bared. Dallas looks out the window and sees the image that offends his father so.

There, walking down the avenue hand in hand, is a white boy and a black girl. They're smiling, laughing, oblivious to the cold stare his father is giving them.

"Disgusting," he snarls when the couple exchange a soft kiss.

Dallas didn't see much of a problem; couples like that come a plenty, especially in their projects. Him and his father see them all the time and his father hasn't said so much as a word about it. Why now?

"What is?"

" _Them. Those negresses are good for one thing. Don't you dare be an embarrassment like that man and bring home a goddamn nigger._ "

Dallas flinches at the word.

His friend Ricky told him not to say that word; it's an evil word, a cruel word, a word that makes Ricky ball his fist and fight him. It's a word of anger and hate; Dallas had heard enough of Ricky's stories to know that.

He wants to say something, tell him that his words are wrong and that Ricky wouldn't like it if he said such things to his face. Instead, he says nothing; he watches the couple walk past them, eyes gleaming with apology. He loses his appetite and pushes his food away.

" _What's wrong, son?"_

" _Nothing. I've lost my appetite for the day."_

That night, he lied in bed thinking about his father's words. He feels that his words are wrong because Ricky said so, yet he was raised to believe his father's word is always right. But his words sound so awful and cruel; his mother always told him to not hate anyone without a good reason. What have they done to his father for him to react this way? Nothing; all the couple did was hold hands and mind their business. He kept thinking about the words he heard his father say, weighing it with Ricky's horror stories of what those words cost him. Those words swirled and mixed in his head until his head hurt and he couldn't tell who said what and what was actually said. He closed his eyes, vowing to push it back and never think about it again.

* * *

"We're moving to Oklahoma."

It's been a year since that conversation; Dallas is eating corn flakes when he broke the news.

His father earned a job that pays handsomely; they could live a fresh start. Dallas would leave Harlem behind, leave Ricky, Marco, and Delilah behind for a dry ass town in the middle of nowhere. Tulsa, what the hell kind of name is that? That sounds like a soda-pop brand or something.

Not that he had much of a choice; he'd six weeks to pack his bags, wave his friends goodbye and head west.

He looks out from his porch as his father packs the last of his things in the van. The sticky summer made his clothes cling to his body; he's going to miss the refreshing taste of Ricky's mom's homemade iced tea with the mint leaves inside. Ricky watches from the comfort of the fifth floor, shouting out promises and for him to always write. Dallas scoffs. They both know good and well they're damn near illiterate; what business they have writing to each other if both can't read?

"I'm mad you're leavin'." Marco grumbles, throwing his ball at the brick wall. Delilah is sitting on the porch next to him, smoking a cigarette and trying to comb through her freshly flat-ironed hair that's poofing up at the roots.

"Oklahoma is a hick town. It's filled with those good ol' boys who like to wear sheets and scare people. Momma told me all about it. You best be careful. They don't think like we do." She flips her hair, her light brown skin glowing in the sun.

"Man, shut up, high yella. There you go again, talking that mess. You forget Dally's a _white boy, un guero_. He'll fit in just fine." Marco enunciates with a faux Southern accent, making the three giggle.

"I'm gonna miss you guys, you know. I doubt Oklahoma got red beans and rice, Cuban style."

"I wish you could read so I can send you my address and you can write to us. Come visit us when you get the money. We'll still be here." Delilah's green eyes flicker over to him. Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah. We'll be around."

"Dallas!"

His father.

"I think it's time for me to leave." He leaves the stoop, giving his friends a sad look before making his way for the van.

"Wait!"

Delilah embraces him.

"Don't you ever change, not for nobody." She says in his ear.

He leaves, the dull static of the radio and his father's lectures about his friends in German fading away as he looks out at his window and watches the boroughs, the streets, the town and the smells leave him.

He will never forget New York.

* * *

" _What the hell were you thinking, provoking the cops like that? If I hadn't leapt in front of that police car and tackled you I don't know what I'd…"_

Dallas opens his eyes and is blinded by white light. He's in a holding cell of sorts, nursing a broken arm and a splitting headache. His father had been cursing and berating him in angry German while his friends look on in horror and confusion.

He wishes he was dead.

"Dallas Winston, you're quite popular here."

"Shut up, porky. What charge you got me on?"

"Possession of an illegal firearm, attempted robbery, and attempted assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon."

"That heater ain't even loaded."

"You think we care?"

"Please, officer. It's been a long night. I come home from a long day at work and I'm exhausted. May I please speak to my son?" his father asks.

"If you like, Mr. Winston."

Mr. Winston looks over at his son, his blue eyes turning icy.

" _You idiot! I've never thought you'd do this of all things just to prove how much of a fuck up you are! Robbery? Stealing my goddamn gun and pointing it at a fucking cop? If your mother were alive I'd ask her if she dropped you on your head as an infant!"_

" _Shut the fuck up, old man. Don't act like you care now that I almost died_."

"I always cared for you, you ungrateful brat! Every penny I made went to the house, the bills, the food on the table! _You think it's easy raising a teenager who is driving me to an early grave from the many nights seeing you in jail? Filing out reports and scraping enough cash to bail you out?_ "

"Who said I wanted you to? You knew I made my own money at the rodeos."

"Rodeos!" He booms, laughing a dark laugh and looking over at Dallas's friends to see if they're in on the joke. " _He says 'I made my own money at the rodeos'_!" he mocks, eyes twinkling with sarcasm.

" _The rodeos! What are you, some hillbilly now? Some wannabe cowboy riding off into the sunset?_ "

" _It's the only honest thing I do for money that I like, Father. You'd have known had you actually visited and watched me ride_."

"What the hell are you guys saying? Where's a goddamn translator when you need him?" Two-Bit cries, tearing at his hair.

" _In true American fashion, lazy hillbilly doesn't want to learn a language and wants it hand-fed to him_." Mr. Winston mutters.

" _Don't start. You've been living in America for over 30 years, old man. You should know they don't speak German here_."

" _Fair enough_."

Mr. Winston looks over at his friends once more.

"My name is Franz Winston, Dallas's father. I believe we haven't met. I'd prefer if we met on…different circumstances, but life has a funny way of changing plans."

He laughs a bitter laugh and shakes his head.

" _What have they done to you, my son?_ "

* * *

Dallas has an uncanny habit of getting his way.

Despite the charges stacked against him, he got lucky; the robbery charge was dropped because there wasn't enough monetary value stolen for it to be considered robbery (he left the cash right by the door and booked it), because the gun was registered in his father's name and it isn't loaded, that charged was dropped as well. The only remaining charge was attempted assault, but that charge didn't hold much weight; they still needed to punish him for giving the police grief. The sentence was relatively light: 30 days in the cooler with the possibility for getting out on good behavior.

Dallas smirked as his favorite cop turns cherry red and his fat finger glides over his neck.

He kisses at him.

* * *

" _Things are going to change around here, Dallas. You are going to be an adult in a matter of weeks and you need to start being a productive member of society_."

Dallas rolls his eyes. Not again.

They had this conversation before: his father would make an empty promise about being more involved in his life and making Dallas turn his life around for the better, only to falter and let his son run wild because apparently work is more important than family. And then, like clockwork, Dallas would be thrown back in jail and once he gets out, he makes those empty promises again.

" _This time I'm serious_."

It's almost verbatim.

"Cut the father act, old man. I know you don't keep your promises." He barks.

"Son, I'm doing the best I can but I work. You may not understand, but it cost money to keep this house afloat and put food on the table. Would you rather we be homeless and out on the street?"

"But is it worth missing birthdays, Christmases, father-son bonding over playing ball? The many nights I'd come home to an empty house? What's the point of working for a house that you don't even live in?"

"It's part of the American Dream, Dallas. You work for the nice house, the white picket fence, the happy family and the glory of the red, white, and blue. That's the main reason I left Germany and came here."

"The American Dream is a _lie_ , Pop. We're the poorest people in town, on the wrong side of the tracks, struggling to get by even with you working _double_ the hours you worked in New York. Being poor isn't part of the American Dream."

"You don't know poor! This is the richest thing in the world compared to my years in Germany! Back then, money was worthless; we used it as wallpaper and fuel for fire on those cold days. You don't know the true pain of receiving letters of loved ones dying in gas chambers, friends you've grown up with ripped away by death and destruction, family scattered everywhere in the world for safety and never hearing from them again. You don't know what it's like to be cold in the worst of winters and have nothing to keep you warm but the books you had to burn and the memories that burned with it.

"This country's little grievances mean _nothing_ to what I've experienced. Here, you have a chance. You have a voice. You have a reason to keep moving on. You wake up every day and work hard to pay a debt to this country, to earn your right of being an American. You were born in this privilege; you never experienced the hardships that me and the parents of your mother experienced." He looked over at his son, " _You need to be thankful for what you have and not let it go to waste_."

" _I don't need your lectures about how I should be thankful to be in this awful place._ Have you not watched the news? People are getting drafted left and right to fight some Orientals in 'Nam. Some of my friends are coming back with missing limbs and some not at all. They're picking the poorest bastards to draft and let me tell you, old man. I'm next."

For once in what feels like forever, Dallas watches his father's face go pale.

"Let's prepare for when that day comes," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Right now, let's work on getting you a job."


	2. Chapter 2: The Factory

**Chapter Two: The Factory**

 **AN: There will be a graphic death scene. You have been warned. Also...BACKSTORY! Also, there's foul language, slight racial slurs, and a lot of character development. Another note: a lovely reviewer brought it to my attention that the Italics aren't showing up on mobile devices. I'll make note of that for future chapters. Thank you guys so much for reading; it does a body good to see people like what I write, even if it's about an OC. The OC Dallas is paired up with will arrive soon, if you guys are waiting for her. Just be patient. :)**

* * *

He starts working after three weeks.

It was surprisingly easy; Darry had seen him and after they exchanged words Darry put in a good word for him. The employer met him, shook his hand, and said, "You're a wild one, but I see that you're an honest man under all that grease. I trust Darry that you won't be a mistake." Dallas bit his tongue and took the compliment, bent on working to prove himself to his father. He breezed through orientation, the tutorials of how machinery works and how to put in time slots for lunch breaks and off time. After the basics were established, Dallas was assigned to work in the assembly line for the toy parts.

His job is, in some sick joke, at a toy factory. A toy factory that actually manufactures toys he used to play with in his youth. As he screws on the head of yet another teddy bear, he sees his past staring back at him with sad brown eyes and fur. He resists the urge to tear that thing to pieces to bury his emotions.

That teddy bear was the last thing his mother gave him before she succumbed to her illness; it was the last thing he had left of her that was lost in their move to Oklahoma. It felt like a punishment to make the very thing he lost, a punishment for his awful behavior committed while his innocent mother looks down from Heaven.

He takes the punishment willingly.

It wasn't so bad; half the workers are within his age group and come from the wrong side of the tracks, a handful of them are drinking buddies with Buck and Tim. The older, more laid back demographic of workers are comrades of Darry's, blue collar men who simply work to feed their families; Dallas would see snippets of children's photos in wallets as proud fathers chatter about the toys they're going to get for their little Sally or rambunctious Thomas.

He, for some bizarre reason, attracts coworkers who want his friendship. He doesn't understand why; he hardly talks and if he does communicate it's in grunts or curses. He's not a very social person by the farthest stretch of imagination; outside of his Greasers, he's simply a man who prefers to not exist and to simply observe. He became known at his job as "the Mute", and the coworkers would make a game to see if they could pry information out of him for laughs. The next contender is up for the challenge.

"So, you watch the game last night?"

"Doll Number 47 needs more paint on the lips." Dallas responds, shoving the doll in his coworker's hands. He's not in the mood; the holidays are rolling around the corner and they have to work quickly and efficiently to make as many toys as possible for the hungry shoppers looking for a last minute present. If they don't meet the quota by next week, all of their paychecks are getting slashed and damn the possible Christmas bonus.

The worker, visibly amused by the response, takes the doll and applies the paint. The next one comes up.

"You know, there's this party happening on Christmas Eve. We've got eggnog." He wags his eyebrows. It's Jim, the sanctified holy man who's a wet blanket for anyone looking for a good time. Dallas knows that Jim's idea of fun is sitting around in a circle talking about Jesus and playing wholesome games with the family. No booze, no sex, no rock 'n' roll and especially no grass to mellow him out.

He'd much rather kill himself.

"Not interested." Dallas responds, assembling Doll Number 55 and working on the next one. Jim hangs his head and keeps it moving, making his way to his cubicle to fill out some paperwork. The next coworker, the newbie, saunters up to him with a confidence Dallas could associate as alien.

"You look like you could enjoy a night on the town, hombre. Name your poison."

Dallas is intrigued.

"Where you from?" Dallas asks. That sort of lingo sounds like Marco's.

"B-K-L-Y-N. All day." He pops his collar. Dallas snorts. He's definitely from there. No one in this town has that kind of confidence.

"I'm from Harlem."

"What part?"

"Miguel! Get back to work!"

"Shit, got to get back in my line. Catch me later on break, alright?"

"Yeah." Dallas grunts.

Miguel nods his head and jogs back to his spot.

* * *

It was lunch break.

Darry's busy talking to Jim and Bobby while Dallas sits at the side of the factory, smoking his cigarette and counting his money. With the remaining balance from his paycheck, he could afford a hamburger with a bag of chips. If he sneaks into the breakroom and fill up his canteen with coffee, he can get a decent beverage that'll keep him awake.

"Hey, Harlem!"

Wolf whistle.

It's Miguel.

He walks on over to him, hands in his pockets and a sandwich bag squished under his arm.

"I've been looking for you, man. Thought you bailed."

"Need somethin'?"

"Nah, I just want to talk. We left off on when you were talking about Harlem."

So he tells him.

* * *

 **Harlem, New York, 1955**

"Hey, white boy."

Dallas whips his head around.

He'd been playing wall ball with himself for the past fifteen minutes when two kids came down the steps and seen him. One is a light-skinned black girl in an olive green dress and long brown hair in pigtails and the other a dark-skinned black boy wearing scruffy sneakers, dirty jeans and a simple white t-shirt.

"You wanna play with us?" the black boy asks.

"Who are you?" Dallas asks.

"I'm Ricky, and this light-bright is my cousin Delilah."

"Shut up, Ricky. You know you're not supposed to call me that! I'm telling Momma."

"Go 'head, tattletale. Then I'll tell her how you scuffed the new shoes she got you for church. Go 'head."

Delilah crosses her arms and purses her lips like she sucked a bad lemon. Dallas snickers.

"What you laughin' at, white boy?" Delilah saunters over to him, her fist held up to his face. Dallas laughs even harder.

"Your face. You look like you've been sucking on a lemon."

Ricky cackles.

"Boy, you funny. You got to play with us."

"What you guys playing?"

"Old Man Cricket."

"What's that?"

"Follow us and you'll see!" Delilah takes off upstairs, her pigtails slapping against her dress. Dallas got a peek of her panties and his cheeks burned hot.

"Come on, white boy. Let's go!" Ricky grabs his arm and they race upstairs to catch up to Delilah. They make it to the 5th floor, sweaty and excited.

"Where are we?"

"We need to get our boy Marco before we play." Ricky explains. He knocks on the door and they wait a few seconds before the familiar click and slide of the latch happens and the door swings open to reveal a very tan little boy with curly hair and a smirk.

"What's up…who's the _gringo_?"

"The hell is a 'green-go'?" Dallas fires back, feeling insulted. Is it some type of flamingo?

"It's a…nevermind," the boy sighs. He holds out his hand to shake.

"My name is Marco. Yours?"

They shake hands.

"Dallas."

"Like Texas? That's pretty cool, man. You ride bulls and shit?"

"Marco Ruiz Jimenez!" a shrill cry slices through the room. A tall, curvy, tanned woman with dark brown hair down her back rushes over to the boy and smacks him upside the head.

"Language! You will not say such filth in my house! You hear me?"

"Yes, Mama. Please let go of my ear." She grips it for good measure and eyes the three children. Embarrassed, she lets go of his ear and composes herself.

"Excuse Marco's behavior. He knows better than to say such filth in this household. Why, hello, Delilah and Richard. How's Miss Anna and Emelia?"

"Mom's doing fine, Mrs. Jimenez. She's working closer to the house and got a call from Daddy. He's coming back from New Orleans," Delilah responds.

"And Big Mama is thriving at her diner. She keeps talking about your famous banana bread." Ricky adds. Mrs. Jimenez nods in approval.

"Well I'm glad. I'll be sure to send you two home with a fresh batch. I even added the walnuts like she likes. Would you three like to come in for dinner? I just got done cooking and I don't feel comfortable letting you guys play without adults watching you guys closely. It's getting a little dangerous around here and I want you guys safe. I'll phone in your parents and tell them you're staying over." She smiles. She gestures them in, eyeing Dallas with curiosity and warmth.

"I've never seen you before. What's your name, hijo?"

"Dallas, ma'am."

"What a lovely name. Are your parents from Texas?"

"No, from Germany and Sicily."

"What an… _interesting_ combination." She muses. She ushers him inside and closes her door.

Dallas is greeted by smells that are unfamiliar to him. He watches Delilah, Ricky, and Marco set the table and feels like an outsider.

"Dallas, can you help them with the dishes? The plates are awful heavy and I need a big, _strong_ , boy like you to lift them." She pats his arm and chuckles. Dallas giggles and grabs the plates. After the table is set, Mrs. Jimenez is on the phone and scooping up food from her pots and skillets.

"Yes, Miss Anna. They're eating at my place and I'm sending them off with the bread I promised. Yes…yes, certainly...of course! Uh-huh…uh-huh…No problem at all…I'm sure he'd understand…I still got Delilah's clothes from last time…uh-huh…uh-huh…I'll see you in the morning after the kids go to school…God Bless." She hangs up the phone.

"Guess who's spending the night at our place tonight?" she announces the kids. The cousins cheer and applaud while Dallas looks on in confusion. Is this what kids do…go to strangers' homes and spend the night? He literally just met these people today!

"Dallas, what are your parents' phone number?"

"Uh..WInston 4-9871."

She nods her head and dials the number.

"H-hello? Hi…this is Cassandra Jimenez, the neighbor on the 5th floor. I'm calling to ask if your son would like to stay the night with my son and the neighbor's kids. I can assure you they're in great hands and…uh-huh…my son's name is Marco…he's definitely a good boy…Yes, my door is 35E…uh-huh…yes…oh, I understand…not a problem at all…would you like him to come home after dinner? I have no problem walking him downstairs and giving you some of the Lemon Cake I just made as a welcoming gift…uh-huh…Yes, my number is JImenez 4-7234…uh-huh…God Bless." She hangs up.

"Perhaps another time, I'm afraid. But your mother doesn't mind you staying for dinner. Wash up and sit down with the kids." She smiles at him, gesturing to the bathroom three doors down. Dallas makes his way in and is greeted by bright colors and a model of the Virgin Mary standing on the lid of the toilet, her dark eyes looking at him in the judgment from the reflection of the mirror. He washes his hands quickly and walks down to the kitchen and sits down. The food looks nothing like the potato pancakes and the _alla ghiotta_ he's used to eating; this food looks familiar and foreign all the same.

The plate has vibrant looking rice, meat that falls off the bone in a dark brown, almost purplish gravy substance, with crisp salad and fresh looking avocado slices.

"Try it, hijo. It won't bite you." Mrs. Jimenez goads. Dallas scoops up his fork and tries the meat. His mouth explodes in flavor…and heat. He's hit with a burning sensation in his mouth; he sputters and coughs, reaching for the water and downing it in one gulp, only to choke on the liquid. Marco jumps into action, patting his back while Dallas tries to regain his composure.

"Hijo!" Mrs. Jimenez exclaims, grabbing his glass and refilling it with milk, "I should've warned you about the meat."

"White boy can't handle his flavor." Ricky snickers. Delilah swats his arm, giggling. After Dallas corrected himself, he tries the rice. He likes it; it evens out the spice when he mixes it with the meat. He eats the salad and it's pretty tasty; he crunches the lettuce with satisfaction and nibbles on avocado. He finishes his plate in a matter of minutes and dabs his mouth with a napkin.

"Like it, hijo?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dallas replies.

"You want seconds?"

"Yes please."

After his second plate, Dallas is walked downstairs with a mouthful of lemon cake by Mrs. Jimenez and the neighborhood kids. He makes it to the 3rd floor, his floor, and knocks on the door. His father answers, his expression stern and uncompromising.

"Hello, Mr. Winston. Here's your son, well-fed and safe."

"Thank…you." He forced out, his accent thick and obvious. He is still learning English. He guides Dallas inside and squares off with Mrs. Jimenez.

"Here's the cake I promised. I hope you and your family enjoy it. Here's my address and phone number; be sure to give us a call in case you want a babysitter for Dallas. I'm more than happy to take over for you." She smiles at him. Mr. Winston's demeanor softens.

"Have…a good…day…Mrs….Jee-mean-ez."

"Mrs. Jimenez, Mr. Winston." She corrects calmly.

"Have a good evening, you guys. God bless." She smiles before walking back upstairs, the kids following behind like ducklings. When Mr. Winston closes and locks the door, he looks over to his son.

" _I can't believe you had dinner with that wetback and those…pickaninnies._ "

"Dad! Mom said it was okay."

"What did I say was okay?" Mrs. Winston comes into the view, arms holding a fresh pot roast. Her green eyes flicker over to Dallas and she grins.

"Hello, sweetie! How's Mrs. Jimenez?"

"She's a really nice lady. I tried some of her cooking tonight. It was pretty spicy, but delicious. She even let me have seconds." Dallas beams at her. Mrs. Winston sets down the pot roast and pulls a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"That sounds lovely. Even though your appetite is spoiled," she tickles his tummy, "I can be sure to save you some for tomorrow's lunch. You can have ice cream."

"What flavor?"

"Chocolate."

"Oh boy!" Dallas exclaims, jumping up and down from excitement.

"But first, it's time for a bath and for you to get in your pajamas for bed. After dessert, I'll read you a bedtime story. Okay, honey?"

"What story will we be reading?"

"Hansel and Gretel."

"I love that story!"

"I know. You can even snuggle with Mr. Teddy." She holds up his freshly washed stuffed animal.

Dallas holds Mr. Teddy in his hands.

"I can't believe you found him!"

"He was hiding behind the washing machine. Poor thing was stuck."

"Thanks, Mommy." He hugs her.

"It's all in a day's work." She hugs back.

* * *

"This is where Old Man Cricket lives," Delilah pants out, pointing to the last door at the end of the hall. They resumed his journey the day after, with Marco tagging along as the muscle. They're on the 10th floor, the floor very few people live in due to the height and lack of proper renovations. The smell of piss, decay, and desperation is eminent, an omen for the kids to stay away. Dallas has an awful feeling in his gut that something bad is about to happen. The quad makes their way down the hall, a pungent smell creeping from the door. The kids shield their noses from the smell, Marco going as far as fanning the air.

"Who died here?" Marco muses aloud.

"Better yet, who _lives_ here?" Ricky adds, scanning the desolate surroundings.

"No one knows who lives here, but late at night you can hear the moans and wails. Back in the 20s, Old Man Cricket murdered his whole family and then himself. I think his old room is haunted. Legend has it that when you go in the room and say his name three times, he'll appear out of thin air and make you his next victim!" she pounces on Dallas, making him jolt. She laughs.

"She's just fucking with you. Old Man Cricket is this mean old man who never talks to nobody, only yells at you and throws shit if you walk past his door. He has the best candy in his room, though. We'd knock on his door, lure him out, and we run in, grab the candy, trip him and we book it. Think you can handle it?" Ricky asks him.

The spotlight is on Dallas.

"Yeah, I'm down." Dallas shrugs his shoulders, a move he adopted from the wise-guys that came down the avenue to collect debts. They nod their heads and knock on the door. Silence.

"Old Man Cricket? You in there?" Delilah knocks harder.

The door creaks open.

The kids look at each other.

"Something's not right," Marco whispers.

"Think we should look inside?" Delilah inquires, her eyes wide and flitting back and forth.

"The fuck we look like? Going into someone's home without the say-so, getting into some shit we have no business getting in? I'm ready to bail." He hisses back, ready to leave. Delilah grabs his wrist.

"What, you're chicken-shit now, Marco? Come on, man. The white boy has more balls than you. Right, Dallas?"

Dallas is already inside.

He assesses the damage; food looks old and moldy, the house a mess and reeking of filth and rot, and then, he's hit with a stench that's unforgettable.

Death.

His friends crowd around him, gagging on the smell. They smell it too.

"Someone needs to crack a window in here! It stinks to high hell!" Ricky groans through his shirt.

"Guys…do you hear that?" Dallas shushes them, listening sharply.

Water. Water trickling down.

"It's coming from the bathroom." Delilah whispers. They tip-toe through the hallway, the smell getting stronger with each step. Then they reach the bathroom, they're greeted by a horrible sight.

There, in the bathtub, decomposing at an alarming rate with a slit wrist, is Old Man Cricket.

Their screams could be heard for a whole three blocks.

* * *

"Some story you got there, Harlem." Miguel says through the smoke in his nose. Dallas finishes his last cancer stick, looking out into the Tulsa sky.

"Yeah, one of my many experiences in my youth." Dallas chortles, remembering the teddy bear.

"Want to hang out sometime tonight? If you're not doing anything, that is."

"Nah, I need to sit this one out. It's the anniversary."

"Of what?"

"My mother's death."


	3. Chapter 3: Anniversary Cake

**Chapter Three: The Anniversary Cake**

Dallas clocks out and makes his way out of the factory, wiping the sweat and grime off his face. He's tired and hungry; the only thing that's open this late is a diner two blocks from the factory.

Cajun Lonnie's is a new diner that's opened up on the outskirts of town, deep within the black demographic. It didn't bother Dallas one bit; he's not looking for trouble and he knows how to act. He walks in to the diner and takes his seat. He notices how silent the atmosphere is and he looks up.

Just about everyone in there is staring at him, some of them none too friendly.

It is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

"Are you lost?" A sweet voice cuts through the air. It's a pretty dark skinned girl in a waitress uniform with the nametag that reads Shirley. Her pitch black hair is styled into a fluffy afro that hides her ears and frames her heart-shaped face. Dallas sees her curves, her delicate fingers gripping pen and paper and those shapely legs that give a peek of her upper thigh from the hem and feels stupefied.

"I'm right where I want to be," he answers, his voice unnaturally soft.

"Well, my name is Shirley, and I'll be your server for today. What would you like?"

Dallas looks up at the menu over Shirley's head and sees what he's looking for.

"Collard greens, mac 'n' cheese, fried chicken and hushpuppies with a side of candied yams and fried okra."

"You want some cornbread?"

"Do oranges grow on trees?"

Shirley smirks.

"Drink?"

"Iced tea. You think you got mint leaves back there?"

"No, we don't."

"That's fine.

"For here or to-go?"

"Here."

"You want some dessert?" Her soft brown eyes smile at him.

"New customers get a free dessert the first time they come in," she adds with a wink.

"Yeah." Dallas answers.

"What would you like?"

"Surprise me."

"Alright," she scribbles it down.

"What's your name?"

"Dallas."

"You from Texas?"

"No, New York."

"Okay. Sit tight and your food will be here in a couple of minutes."

"Thank you, Shirley."

"Anytime." She winks at him.

Dallas feels his stomach flutter.

When he was left alone, he pulls out the teddy bear he pocketed from work. It used to be so big when he was young, yet it's so small in his large palm. They don't make the teddies like they used to; it feels too mechanical, too impersonal and unfeeling. He squeezes the teddy bear's stomach and feels nothing.

"I miss you, Mom." He tells the teddy bear whose sad brown eyes stare back at him. He sighs and sets down the bear. He feels his eyes burn but pushes it down. He won't cry, he refuses to cry. He's been strong for this long; no need to go back now.

* * *

 **Harlem, New York, 1955**

"Can someone please tell me what the _fuck_ we just saw?"

Marco is pacing back and forth while Delilah is vomiting to the side. Dallas is stuck in place while Ricky is rubbing his eyes, trying to will the image away in his head.

Old Man Cricket is dead. Dead.

He'd been dead for a while; he's been sitting in his own rot for about a few days, the water accelerating his decomposition. To add more to the disgust, the stench has attracted flies and almost everywhere they stepped they were squishing into squirming maggots.

Delilah threw up all of her breakfast.

The four got out of there, screaming and trying to come to terms with what they'd just witnessed. This is the first time Dallas had seen a dead body, especially one this badly decaying. He was green, bloated, and stunk to high heaven; that image will haunt Dallas for as long as he lives.

"What we need to do is call the police. They're the only ones that can do something about it." Dallas reasoned, remembering the phone number his mother always told him in case of emergencies.

"I never thought I'd say this, but the white boy is right. We need to call the cops on this one. Let's get to my house and call." Marco guides them down to the 5th floor.

The cops came within hours. All the kids got was Old Man Cricket being wheeled out through the front door by a white sheet that's drenched in water. When his hand flopped out of the sheet, Delilah fainted on Ricky.

The kids' parents individually talked to them regarding Old Man Cricket's death, scrambling for a decent explanation regarding what they had seen. It didn't do that they all had nightmares that prevented them from getting up in the morning for school.

Dallas had it the worst; he'd have nightmares, panic attacks, and bedwetting incidents. He couldn't eat certain foods for weeks at a time and couldn't go to bed without his mother lying in it with him. It put a strain on the Winston household and Mr. Winston has had enough. Dallas tries to sleep, but can't help but hear his parents fight over him through the thin walls of his apartment.

"We need to do something about our son, Teresa. We are running out of sheets and we can't afford another mattress for him to soil!"

"What do you want me to do, Franz? Our boy has seen a _dead body_! He's way too young to understand death!"

" _Because you keep babying him! We need to toughen him up and prepare him for the real world!_ "

"Honey, he's _seven years old_. He's a little boy, not a man. I think I have an idea." Dallas hears his mother's footsteps and feigns sleep. Mrs. Winston looks over at Dallas's silhouette; he could feel her sadness radiate in waves and feels guilt.

* * *

"Mommy, why am I spending the night at the Jimenez's?"

"Because Mommy has to work late and Papa needs to clean the linens again. I'll come get you in three days, okay?"

"Okay."

"Got your clothes?"

"Yep."

"Toothbrush?"

"Yep."

"Mr. Teddy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Flashlight for the boogeyman?"

"Uh-huh."

"Mommy's kisses?"

Before Dallas could respond, Mrs. Winston places numerous kisses on her son's face.

"Done and done," she chuckles against his cheek. He laughs heartily and they make it to the front door. After knocking, they're greeted by Delilah and Marco, dressed in their pajamas.

"Dallas," Marco greets. Dallas nods and they make their way in.

Ricky is in the kitchen helping Mrs. Jimenez cook while Mr. Jimenez is straightening out the pillows on his couch. Mrs. Jimenez looks over her shoulder and smiles.

"Hello, Mrs. Winston and hello, hijo!" she hugs them both, unaware that cake batter is smearing onto their faces. Mrs. Winston laughs, wipes the cake batter off her cheek and tasting it.

"Lemon cake?"

"Of course. And in a couple of hours, the carrot cake will be finished for you to take home. Dallas has everything?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll let Marco and Ricky get him settled in. I appreciate you letting him come, Mrs. Winston."

"Oh please, call me Teresa and anytime."

"Teresa, I think your son and my son will be the best of friends."

* * *

That night, Dallas shares a room with the boys while Delilah got the room closest to the bathroom. It's then Dallas wants to talk to them about last week's events.

"Did you guys ever think about Old Man Cricket?" Marco begins.

"Yeah, man. That was real foul, seeing him like that. I can't eat rice for a week because of him!" Ricky makes a face.

"I'm used to seeing them, you know. Dead bodies. Dad used to take me to his job where I'd see lots of 'em. He'd cut them open and stuff 'em, make 'em look real pretty, you know? But I've never seen one like that, though. Makes me wish that smell of formaldehyde was there to mask the smell."

"What's formaldehyde?" Dallas asks.

"This liquid that keeps people from rotting. It stinks really bad and makes people look waxy."

"Oh." Dallas hugs his pillow.

"It's your first time seeing one, is it?" Marco looks over at him.

"I know it's gross and even scary, but trust me, they won't do you no harm. It's just a body; the spirit is long gone and up to Heaven or down to Hell. Death is normal, it's a part of life."

"I don't want to die," Dallas mumbles into his pillow.

"We're all gonna die, Dal. Dad says dying is gonna happen to everyone. If everyone lived forever, the world would be overcrowded. Do you want to be 800 years old, where you're literally bones and skin?"

"Yuck!"

"Exactly!" Marco snaps his fingers. "So don't be afraid of death, Dallas. It's a part of life. I'm going to be dealing with death more than you; Dad says when I turn 17, I'm working with him in the funeral home. When I'm 25, I own the business."

"You have your whole life set up, Marco?" Ricky asks.

"Yeah. He wants me to carry on the family name. So I'm following into his footsteps and making him proud."

"That's cool," Dallas mumbles. He still feels scared about seeing Old Man Cricket in his dreams.

"Hey, man." Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.

"We need to lean on each other and stop letting what we saw scare us. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Now let's get some sleep. Mom's making some of her famous breakfast treats and whoever wakes up last has to clear the table."

"Aw, man!" Ricky groans, before flopping on the bottom bunk bed and Marco on the top. Dallas sleeps on the bed adjacent from his friends, trying to sleep, but finds himself unable to. To calm his nerves, he pulls out Mr. Teddy and feels a little bit calmer.

It's 5 in the morning when Dallas wakes up with a scream. He had a nightmare that Old Man Cricket grabbed Dallas and tried to drown him in the bathtub.

Marco and Ricky swing into action, flipping on the light and gripping baseball bats. Seeing a nonexistent threat, they look to Dallas.

"Boy, you out your cotton pickin' mind? What the hell are you shouting about?" Ricky hisses.

"I had a dream Old Man Cricket tried to drown me in the tub again!"

The boys sigh and put down the weapons.

"White boy...you working my last nerve." Ricky plops down on Dallas's bed. Marco sits on the other side.

"I really don't want to clear the table in the morning all because you have nightmares."

"It's not my fault! I can't help it!"

Marco and Ricky sigh.

"We know." They say in unison.

Dallas feels ashamed; he never asked to be such a burden on his new friends' backs.

"I'm sorry, guys."

"No need to be sorry. Ricky, go back to sleep. Dallas, follow me in the kitchen."

Wiping the leftover sleep from his eyes, Dallas follows Marco down the dark hallway for the kitchen. He flicks on the light and rummages through his refrigerator and pulls out what he's looking for. It's a murky, green fluid sloshing around in a jar, bubbles popping at the surface.

"What is that?" Dallas makes a face.

"Dreamcatcher Juice. It worked on Delilah and it'll work on you."

"What about Ricky?"

"Ricky's a big kid; he'd seen enough death to last him a lifetime. Now drink up." He pours a quarter glass full in a cup and hands it to Dallas. Dallas gives it a whiff and blanches.

"Yuck!"

"Hold your nose and drink it, dummy."

"Don't call me that."

"Just drink it."

Taking note of Marco's advice, Dallas pinches his nose and knocks it back. His body lurches forward from the awful taste, goosebumps riddling his skin and a fiery roaring in his gut took root. He coughs and jerks, pushing down the bile coming up.

"Chase it with water."

Don't need to tell Dallas twice.

As Dallas chugs glass after glass of water down his throat, he notices Marco looking at him, his expression unreadable.

"You're going to be up for a minute." Marco warned, "that's one of the side effects from the Dreamcatcher Juice."

"That's the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"Everyone says that. You'll be thanking me in the morning. Wanna talk?"

"Aren't we talking right now?"

"Smartass. I mean let's have a conversation. I sort of want to know why Ricky would invite you to play with us. No offense, but you're a white boy."

"What's me being white have to do with anything?"

"Whites and Coloreds don't have the best of relationships. The white kids used to call us names and give us shit because we look different than them."

"I've been made fun of too; they would call me names and try to steal my lunch. They'd call me Lederhosen and mock my Dad's accent."

"It's different. They make fun of you for the money in your pocket or the clothes on your back. They make fun of us for the color of our skin and the things we can't control." Marco looks away into the darkness.

"We made a promise to not even talk to the white kids, and here you are. White as a sheet with blond hair and blue eyes, like a true blue-eyed devil." He snorts, "funny how things turn out."

"Hey, what you two doing in the kitchen? This coffee hour or something?" Ricky comes into view, flashlight in hand. Delilah follows after, wrapped up in her blanket.

"I can't sleep." She pouts.

"I want to know why on Earth would you be friends with this gringo? He's clearly not like us." Marco points at him. Dallas snarls.

"Because I'm my own person. I'm not like anyone," he responds.

"That's your answer right there. He ain't like them rich boys. He's a gutter kid, just like us. He's tough. You see how he handled himself when he saw Old Man Cricket? He was cool, man. Cool as a cucumber and hard as ice. He's ice cold. Ice." Ricky beams at Dallas.

"Yeah, he did keep a cool head, especially after seeing his first body. You're pretty tough, white boy." Delilah pats his shoulder.

"Hmm…you got a point. He was pretty smart when we were all bugging over Old Man Cricket. If you earned their props, you've earned mine." Marco digs into the refrigerator for four Bubble Ups. When he pops off all four, he holds them up in the rising sun.

"To the new addition to our crew, Ice."

"Ice!" the cousins salute.

Dallas grins.

They clink glasses.

* * *

Here you go,"

Dallas's plate is placed on his table. It looks so appetizing; Dallas can't wait to eat.

"Got napkins, forks and spoons, and here's your iced tea."

"Thanks," Dallas replies, taking the utensils and sipping the tea. It's sweet with a hint of lemon. It doesn't compare to Ricky's mom's tea but it comes close.

"No problem. Let me know when you're ready to pay and I'll get you the check."

He nods at her. When Shirley leaves, he tears into his meal. It reminded him of Delilah's cooking, of cool September nights where Delilah invites him over for dinner to eat. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel them there. He closes his eyes and it's like he's back at his old home, on his 12th birthday, the first few years after his mother's death, celebrating his birthday and having fun with his friends. Delilah smearing cake frosting on his chin, Marco singing an off key tune, Ricky wearing a cheap tux and singing along with Marco. Every bite, every sip and slurp of the food brings him back to a better time, a happier time. When he finishes the last bite, the memories fade. His reality is staring back at him in the face. He's not twelve and in Harlem; he's seventeen and in Tulsa. His mother is dead and gone and his father is forever haunted by her memory.

There, as the nail in the coffin, is the lemon cake placed on his table. His mother's favorite and Mrs. Jimenez's specialty. He feels his throat catch and no matter he tries to fight it, it's fruitless; the tears fall and they won't stop. He's crying over his losses, the fact that he'd lost contact with his friends in three years. He cries until he feels better, until his demons are at bay and he can harden himself again.

"Sir?"

Dallas looks up.

Shirley is leaning over him, her big brown eyes filled with worry.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dallas hastily wipes at his tears, "I just remembered something."


	4. Chapter 4: Shirley

**Chapter Four: Shirley**

"Hello again, stranger."

Dallas looks up from his menu.

There, clear as day, in that damning waitress uniform that clings to her hips and highlights her bust, is Shirley. She's smiling at him, pen and pad in her hands, ready to write down his order.

"Hey, Shirley." Dallas responds, the tension in his brows loosening. He had a rough day at work; Jim kept annoying him about the Christmas party and a broken machine puts a dent in their production _and_ their paychecks. Dallas is hit the hardest; his check got slashed by thirty percent and believe him he's pissed. It's not like he can complain; this is by far the only job that will take him and it's the first job he's actually liking. If it wasn't for the coworkers and the strengthening relationship with his father, he'd have walked out a long time ago.

"Will it be the usual?"

"Not today." Dallas starts. He hates being predictable. "I'll have something sweet today." He winks at her. She chuckles, obviously hearing that line way too many times.

"What will it be?"

"Hot chocolate with the marshmallows. A slice of German chocolate cake, and," he gets close to her, his lips caressing her ear, "your phone number."

That's when Shirley laughs.

She laughs so hard a few patrons turn their head to see the fuss. While she's laughing, Dallas is fuming. Is she laughing at him?

"Woo," Shirley wipes a tear from her eye, "that's the funniest thing anyone has ever said to me. You a comedian, sir?"

"No, I'm not." Dallas answers, trying to cool his burning ears and cheeks.

"I was being serious."

That's when the atmosphere got thick.

"Oh," Shirley begins. She bites her lip, looking down at her shoes while scribbling down the order.

"I'm sorry, I really thought…" Shirley averts her eyes, "The order will be here shortly." She takes his menu and scurries away.

Dallas sits at the diner, tapping his fork against the napkin he folded, unfolded, and folded again. He just wants to get his food and get the hell out of here; he's been humiliated enough. Part of it was his fault; what business he had asking for her number? It was meant as a joke, but when she laughed like that, it felt the joke was on him. One of the easiest ways to get under his skin and make his blood boil is to make a joke out of him. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. She's the only waitress who's around his age and is nice, she is easy on the eyes and not once has she…

Something shines on the ground.

He looks down and sees a shiny purple pen gleaming in the sunlight. It looks just like Shirley's. He twirls it around in his hand. In cursive inscription, the word 'Shirley' shines back at him.

It's definitely Shirley's.

* * *

Dallas clicks the pen fifteen times before his food arrives. He's waiting for the airy voice of Shirley, only to hear a deep, raspy, and gruff baritone of a burly man who's three shades darker than her, his dark gray hair standing out against his skin. He nearly slams Dallas's food on the table and walks off before Dallas could say anything. He stares at his food and frowns. Someone clearly spit in his hot chocolate, the German Chocolate cake has a few hairs on it and it smells like someone wiped their ass with it. He pushes the food away. He's officially lost his appetite.

He strolls over to the counter, fists clenching and unclenching, jaws fighting to not grind his teeth, and slams on the bell. The burly man appears, eyes hard and his lips smug.

"Can I help you, suh?"

Dallas has two options: ask about the pen, or complain about the service. He's not a Soc who whines about every little thing, but that food was very disrespectful and there was no goddamn way he's going to give a penny for that awful food. However, he wants to know about Shirley so he could give her her pen back. Weighing the options, he chooses the first.

"You know where Shirley is? She dropped her pen and I want to give it back to her."

"She ain't here. She got off work five minutes ago. You can hand me the pen and I'll give it to her when she gets back."

He hands out his large palm for the pen and Dallas clutches the pen even tighter. Who knows where his hands have been.

"I'd like to give it to her myself." Dallas replies, before turning on his heel and leaving the diner.

* * *

He sits on the bus, hands holding on to Shirley's pen. He replays today's events over and over in his head, remembering Shirley's mortified face when she learned he wasn't joking. Was he joking at all? Was he being serious or was he saying that to save face? He doesn't know anymore.

He doesn't want to end the conversations he has with her; she's really sweet and she makes his long days at work bearable with her smile and charm. He pulls out the pen, thumbing the cursive lettering of her name. The pen is a pretty one; one made for schoolgirls who want to be nurses or housewives in the hills. Is she a rich girl? Does she come from a good family? Is she trying to be a nurse? All questions spinning in his head as he studies the pen, trying to get a feel of who she is.

He leaves the bus, pen in his pocket warming his palm as he walks down the cold streets, blocks away from his home. The numerous scenarios and methods of talking to his favorite waitress stops when he notices the fluffy afro, the shapely legs, and the dark chocolate skin. She has her back facing him, hunched over and rummaging through something. Curious, Dallas gets closer.

"Where is that goddamn pen? I know I had it somewhere. There's no way I could've lost it. That was my favorite pen!"

"Ahem," Dallas coughs. The woman jumps and turns to face him.

It's definitely Shirley.

"Woah, cool. I don't want any trouble." Dallas holds his hands up. Shirley's wound body eases, eyes sizing him up.

"Were you looking for me?"

"No, I live a few blocks down from here."

"Oh," Shirley softens, "Look, I am really sorry about…"

"There's no need to apologize," Dallas digs into his pocket and retrieves her pen.

"Asking for your phone number ain't really that original."

"My pen!" Shirley gasps. She grabs it and urgently places it in her purse.

"Thank you so much! You have no idea how much that pen meant to me!"

"You're welcome, man. Just wanted to do the right thing."

Shirley smiles.

"Thank you."

"All in a day's work."

"Um…it's getting late, and I really have to get going home."

"I'll walk you there. A pretty lady like yourself got no business walking home in the dark alone. C'mon." he motions with his head for her to walk by his side. She twists her lips, unsure of what decision to make, but decides to walk with him.

The walk was off to an awkward start. Dallas didn't know what to say and Shirley keeps looking over her shoulder.

"What do you keep looking over your shoulder for?" Dallas asks.

"Nothing. It's just, I'm not supposed to be walking alone with a stranger."

"We're far from strangers. I always go to your diner and we talk almost every day."

"That's different. That is business. What we're doing right now is outside of work. I don't even know if Dallas is your real name."

"It is. I'm well known around these parts."

"Clearly not if I didn't know you. I've been living here my whole life."

"Well, I'm well known around the cops and the Greasers. They know me as Dally."

"Dally. What an…interesting name."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Look, I'm sorry for laughing at you today. I'm not used to someone like you coming on to me. I thought you were trying to pull my leg."

"Someone like me?"

"Yeah… _white_."

Ice fell into the pit of his stomach.

"Well, there's my house." They stop to the walkway of a modest two story home with beautiful hedges and a manicured lawn. It'd look almost perfect, if it weren't for the crude paint on the garage door that reads, " **GO HOME, NIGGERS. WHITES ONLY."**

Dallas balks at the sign.

"What the hell is that?"

"Welcoming gift from the neighbors." She sneers. She knocks on the door. A black man answers; it's the same man from the diner, sans the chef hat and scowl. He looks at Shirley with a grin, but when he sees Dallas, he glowers.

"Uncle Red, this is Dallas. He walked me home tonight and gave me back my pen." Shirley explains. Uncle Red grunts and chins up at Dallas.

"White boy!" he barks. Dallas stands at attention.

"Tell your kind that we _enjoyed_ the new hate mail thrown in my back window. The death threats towards my wife, sister, and the kids were _real_ creative. And you tell that neighbor three doors down that it's gonna take more than cheap paint on my garage door and bricks in my window for me to pack my bags and run. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get."

After Shirley is safely inside, Uncle Red spits at the ground, never avoiding eye contact, and slams his door.


	5. Chapter 5: Let's Be Kids Again

**Let's Be Kids Again**

Dallas makes it to his father's in less than fifteen minutes.

He opens the door and is greeted by the familiar smell of meat and potatoes. His father is cooking.

" _Welcome_ _home, son!_ " His father greets from the kitchen.

"I'm surprised you're here, old man. Normally you'd be at your job." Dallas retrieves a beer from the fridge.

"I took the day off. I thought about what you said and I want to make things right by spending time with you." Mr. Winston sets down the dinner for the evening. Bratwurst, potato pancakes, with a side of canned green beans. Dallas can't blame him for trying; it's been years since his father cooked anything for the two of them. He helps himself to the meat and pancakes while ladling a spoonful of green beans.

"A little too late for that, old man. But I appreciate the effort." Dallas knocks back his beer. "I'm working now and I'm still living with Buck. At least now I can pay some more bills."

"I know. I want to celebrate." Mr. Winston holds up his beer. "To manhood."

"To manhood."

They clink bottles.

"I see you've been staying out of trouble. That's good."

He had no other choice; the long hours left him tired and ready to hit the floor. He sleeps more now, crashing at Darry's for a few winks before heading out to finish his shift. His long hours make him lose time spent partying and fighting with his friends, though none of them complained; a working man is an honorable one.

"Yep." Dallas responds, sipping on his beer.

What's there to talk about? Birds and the Bees? Work? The true work of being a man? The news?

"So," Mr. Winston slices through his meat, "how was work?"

"Fine. Nothing happens out of the ordinary, other than having the most annoying coworkers. The boss is a pain in the ass who slashes checks when things don't go as planned."

"It's a part of life, working with people you don't necessarily like," He chews his food, " _My boss is a buffoon as well._ "

Dallas chuckles.

Before the conversation could go further, the telephone rings.

"I'll get it," Mr. Winston rises and walks over to the telephone.

"Hello…yes…he's here right now…May I ask who I'm speaking to? Yes…okay…Dallas!"

Dallas walks over to the phone.

"For you," Mr. Winston mouths.

Dallas picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Who is this?"

"It's Shirley. I noticed you scribbled your number on a piece of paper that you hid in my pen. You're clever."

He grins.

"I try."

"Look, I'm sorry about my uncle's behavior. He's not the most…accepting of whites, especially after the incidents that have been happening since we moved to this part."

"I thought you've been living here your whole life."

"I have, just not in the white part. We've moved here months ago and we've been receiving death threats. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I hardly even know you."

"First time for everything, right? Let's work on getting to know each other. You seem like a cool chick, you dig?"

She giggles.

"Are you really from New York?"

"Yep. Born and raised."

"What's it like?"

"Big, noisy, full of art and full of food. I never really explored it that much; the most distance I had was from the streets of my projects."

"You're from the projects?"

"Yeah, in Harlem."

"Oh."

"What's your favorite color?"

"Purple. And yours?"

"I ain't got no favorite color."

"Alright. What's your sign?"

"Sagittarius. Yours?"

"Pisces."

"Pisces are supposed to be the pretty ones. I guess they're right."

He can hear her smile.

"You live with your uncle?"

"Yeah, I live with him, his wife, my mom, and my cousins."

"You an only child?"

"No. My big sister is in college down in Atlanta and my brother lives with my dad in Vermont."

"You going to school?"

"Yeah. I'm going to Morehouse in the Fall. I'm studying to be a journalist."

"That sounds pretty tuff."

"What does 'tuff' mean?"

"It means something cool, like…Elvis Presley or James Dean."

"I'm not a fan of either. I'm more of a Sidney Poitier or Eartha Kitt fan."

"Who are they?"

She laughs softly.

"People I adore."

"Are you free for the holidays? I'm off work for a few days since Christmas is around the corner. We can go to this spot I used to visit where the snow covers everything. It's real quiet, and it looks really pretty when the sun sets."

"Are you asking me on a date, Dallas?"

"Yeah. I am."

A pause.

"It's a date."

"Okay. I'll pick you up at 8."

"I work at 8."

"I'll pick you up when you get off work."

"…okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright."

"Goodnight, Dallas."

"Goodnight, Shirley."

He hangs up.

"Who's the lovely lady?" Mr. Winston asks.

"This cute girl I met at a diner."

* * *

Dallas breezes through work. He clocks in, chit-chats with Darry and Miguel, dodges Jim's conversation and produces more toys than ever. When it was time to clock out, he punches out without so much as a word to his boss. He bolts home, showers, irons his T-shirt and picks out his best leather jacket. He has to look his best.

He looks in the mirror and fluffs his hair, only for his wispy curls fall and kiss his face. He may have inherited his blond hair and blue eyes from his father, but his curls come from his mother. Sighing, he tries in vain to get them out of his face.

"Fuck it." Dallas shakes his head and walks out his room. Buck is cooking something on the stove when he notices Dallas run out.

"Hey, man!" he hollers after him, "Where you running off to? I haven't seen you in weeks! I thought I was rooming with a ghost or something!"

"Hot date tonight." Dallas hollers back, slamming the door.

"By the way, I'm borrowing your car."

* * *

He pulls up to Cajun Lonnie's and walks right in. He takes a seat, eyes scanning over for Shirley. When he sees a fluffy afro, dark chocolate skin, and those bright brown eyes, Dallas's stomach flutters.

"Hello, stranger." She smiles at him.

"Hello, gorgeous."

She's wearing a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and a heavy leather jacket and a pair of black boots. Her big earrings and dramatic eyes draw his attention; he has a thing for eyes.

"Ready to go?"

"After you." He opens the door for her.

"Goodnight, Tim!" She hollers out after her coworker, and Dallas closes the door.

* * *

"I never really come to places like this," Shirley confesses. They've been driving down the streets and avenues of the fancier side of town. They've passed closed restaurants, boutiques, a few Mom and Pop businesses before they settled on a nice neighborhood. Dallas pulls over, locks the doors, and guides Shirley out of the car.

"Because you're a lady. Ladies got no business prowling the streets alone. It's dangerous." Dallas looks back and forth before letting Shirley cross the street, following behind her like a bodyguard. When they reach a sidewalk, Dallas nudges her to the middle while he walks on the side of the curb.

"Thank you," she says.

"Anytime."

"It looks so amazing tonight."

The neighbors have strung up their Christmas lights; everything seemed to glow gold, red, and green.

"It gets even better; the Johnsons have their houses decorated to the nines every year. It looks like Winter Wonderland." Dallas points to the house that greets their focal point, glowing in blues and whites. As he gets lost in the countless memories sneaking over to see the lights, a cold blast hits him in the back. He whips his head around and sees Shirley scrambling to make another snowball.

"You're gonna get it now," Dallas snarls. He balls up the biggest snowball he could make and throws it at her. She yelps; the snowball hits her in the stomach.

"I'm _really_ gonna get you now!" Shirley fires back. She forms another snowball and chucks it at him. He ducks, scoops up some snow, and throws it at her. She shrieks and runs away from him, throwing snow at him as she runs. Dallas catches up to her and throws a barrage of snowballs at her, each one making her lose her balance. She falls in the snow, shaking with laughter. Dallas stands over her, his face red and grinning like a schoolboy. He holds his hand out for her to take. Expecting her to use his hand to lift her up, he was pulled face first into the snow. Wiping the snow from his face, he rolls on his back and chuckles.

"It's been a while since I played in the snow like this." Shirley breathes out.

"It's been a while since I had a snowball fight." Dallas replied.

"I feel like ten again. Feel like making snow angels."

"What's stopping you?"

"I just did my hair and it's too cold."

"Fair enough." He looks up at the sky. Stars are twinkling, giving them a celestial view.

"It's lovely up there." Shirley says.

"I know. But it's not as lovely as you," he looks over at her. Shirley snorts.

"You're so cheesy!" she giggles.

"I'm trying to be romantic and sweet here. This is a date, after all."

"You can still be sweet without being cheesy. We're getting to know each other, remember?"

Her eyes meet his.

"Yeah."

He's staring at her lips.

"Hey, aren't we going to check out Johnson's place and hit that spot you've been talking about?"

"Yeah, let's go." He stands up and pulls her to him.

"Watch your step," he says in her ear. Those soft brown eyes flicker over to his blue ones. Their bodies melded together, under the glow of tacky Christmas lights, in the dead of night where nothing can be heard but their breaths; it was something of romance novels. Shirley's nose touches his, her lips centimeters away from his. They lock eyes, and in a matter of seconds, her lips touch his.

It's a chaste kiss; a quick peck and she jerks back, eyebrows crossed with worry.

"What's wrong?"

"We're moving a little fast. We need to take it…"

"Hey," he grabs her chin. "Don't think about it, just…let it happen."

He kisses her again.

When the kiss deepens, Dallas feels a burst of pride when he hears her soft moan. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, hands caressing the back of her head. They pull away, panting. Shirley's lip gloss gone, Dallas's face is smeared with the substance and it smells faintly of strawberries. He licks his lips and wipes the gloss off his face.

"Woah," she pants out.

"Yeah." He replies.

"What the hell is going on?"

The two jump. The owner of the brightly colored home is standing at the foot of the door, eyes wide as saucers and jaw hanging to the ground.

"You _goddamned_ kids better get the _hell_ off my lawn before I put my foot in _both_ of your asses!" he yells.

"Shit, c'mon, let's go!" Dallas grabs Shirley's hand and they run to the car. Dallas starts the ignition and pulls off. They're driving down the road, and he hears her giggle. Within seconds, he giggles too.


	6. Chapter 6: Meeting the Parents

**Meeting The Parents**

"Hey, Dal, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Dallas wipes the grease off his hands and looks over at Darry. He stands against the wall, hands in his pockets and eyebrows furrowed.

"What's shaking?"

"I got a call from Ponyboy's school. They said he got into a fight."

"Pone? Nah, man. Whoever picked a fight with him deserves to get their ass whopped."

"It's not just that…he's on probation; he already barely made it past this semester. If he gets suspended again, he might lose his free ride to his Senior Year and it could cost him his college scholarship. I don't know what to do."

"Relax, Darry. I'm sure the fight was justified."

"They said he got into a fight…defending a girl. Bless his pure heart, but that girl could've cost him his education!"

"Stop worrying, man. Let's go down to the school together and straighten this out, okay?"

"Okay."

"Curtis! Winston! Get back to work!" their boss hollers over the machine. Dallas rolls his eyes while Darry makes his way towards his work station.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Darry. Rob got no business harassing her; what kind of idiot pours chili and milk into a girl's hair? I thought we were grown-ups here!"

Darry is pinching the bridge between his nose, sighing deeply while Dallas tries to bite back his smile. Ponyboy always is a gentleman, true and blue.

Ponyboy is sitting in the waiting room, nursing a swollen jaw and a blackening eye; Dallas can't wait to see the damage on the poor bastard that tried to ruffle the kid's feathers.

"Ponyboy," Darry begins with a sigh, "I know that was a nice thing you did, but you can't lose your shot at a better education all over some girl. Some battles aren't meant to be fought."

"But Darry…"

"No buts, Ponyboy! You have to understand that the girl you saved could've cost you your future! What about going to college and being better than those Socs? Better than me, even?"

"Darry, it was justified. I'm positive the principal will see that and straighten everything out."

"I hope so. Who's the girl? Maybe she can vouch for you and make sure you get out of trouble."

"This cute girl in my science class. She's really smart. And her name is Janine."

"Mr. Curtis?"

It's the principal.

Darry stands at attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want to see you and your brother in my office." Darry nods at Dallas, grabs Ponyboy's hand, and makes their way into the principal's office and closes the door.

Dallas sits on the chair, watching the clock tick by. It feels so strange, sitting in school; he hasn't been in school since his brief time in Junior High. He supposes when he kept getting himself thrown into jail, his dad stopped caring about his education and just stopped caring in general.

He regrets all the time lost in school; three meals a day, you get people who invest in your future more than you do, you get to see some cute girls walk past in pretty skirts and long hair bouncing with every step. Sure, the homework, annoying teachers, and geeks make it unbearable, but it doesn't hurt to get a little smarter. Read a few more books, ask a few more questions, finish school and make it with a diploma so he can do something with his life.

He doesn't want to work in a toy factory forever.

"Unbelievable!"

He jolts out of his thoughts. He hears the booming echo of Darry's voice. He pricks his ears to listen in clearer.

"Mr. Curtis, I'd appreciate it if you kept your voice…"

"Principal Vernon, you can't _suspend_ Ponyboy for fighting for what he believes in. He defended someone from a _racist_! Instead of you punishing the _bully_ , you're punishing the _victims_! How is that fair?"

"Mr. Fisk has said he'd done nothing wrong except trip and spill his lunch on Ms. Jones. Ms. Jones seems to have instigated the altercation with Mr. Curtis and…"

"All she did was sit down and _cry_! How is that _instigating_ anything! He poured his lunch on her and called her a _nigger_! Does that sound like he did nothing wrong?"

"Ponyboy, I'd prefer if you keep quiet and let me speak with your brother like adults."

"Look, Mr. Vernon. You and I go way back. Can you please, just overlook this one thing. Ponyboy is a good kid, you know he's a good kid. Compared to that…Fisk kid, Ponyboy is a saint. He is on the track team, has straight A's, and has written a groundbreaking novel that's won awards and has put Tulsa on the map. Why punish the star pupil?"

"Darrel, I know Ponyboy is a good kid. I know that he's the talk of the town and has won many accomplishments for his merits to society. I'll…bend the rules a little bit. He'll get two weeks detention instead and has to write an apology letter to Mr. Fisk. But this is because Ponyboy is a good kid and he's come from the best of families."

"Thank you, Mr. Vernon. I promise, this will not happen again."

"I hope not. This is your final warning, Mr. Curtis. I expect you to stay out of trouble for the rest of your Junior Year."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay then. See you in two weeks."

The door opens. Dallas bolts back to his sitting spot. Darrel gives a deep sigh of relief while Ponyboy fidgets with his hands.

"How'd it go?" Dallas asked.

"I just talked him out of suspension. Ponyboy, next time, don't be the hero." Darrel then storms out of the office, with his brother trailing after.

* * *

Dallas tears into a juicy burger while Steve sips on a chocolate shake and Two-Bit flips through a German dictionary.

"What's this word mean?" Two-Bit asks, pushing the page in Dallas's face. The sentence, _have you seen my coat_ stares back at him in familiarity.

"Word or sentence?"

"This word that says, uh…M..Me…"

"If you can't read English what the hell makes you think you can try German?"

Two-Bit slams down the dictionary in a huff. They were engrossed in conversation when the door to the diner opens and Dallas sees Shirley out of his peripheral vision. Right on time.

"Sorry I'm late, Dallas. I got caught up in…" Shirley stops herself.

"Hey, Shirley." He beams up at her. She bites her lip.

"You know her?" Two-Bit asks.

"Yeah, she's my— "

"—Lovely weather we're having!" Shirley blurts out. Dallas quirks an eyebrow.

"Shirl, what the hell're you— "

"—Dallas, can I talk to you, alone?"

Ignoring the questionable looks from his friends, he nods his head.

They walk to the side of the diner. Dallas lights up while Shirley fumbles with her coat pockets.

"What's wrong, baby?"

"You didn't tell me you're going to bring your friends."

"I wanted to introduce you to my friends Steve and Two-Bit, Shirl. They're good people."

"Dallas, you don't understand. People can't know about us. People talk, you know."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Dallas," she groans out, "We're already breaking a few rules…"

"I don't give a fuck, Shirley." He holds her close.

"People got a lot of shit to say about things they don't know. You're my girl and I want everyone to know it."

He kisses her.

"What the fuck…?"

They pull away.

There, with shocked looks on their faces, are Two-Bit and Steve.

They got some explaining to do.


	7. Chapter 7: They Say

They Say

"So, Dal. Who's your friend?" Two-Bit's harsher tone inquired. Shirley pulls away from Dallas, biting her lips and avoiding eye contact.

"This is my girlfriend, Shirley. Shirley, these are my friends, Two-Bit and Steve." Dallas replies, his eyes returning the harshness. She awkwardly waves her hand, and the two do nothing in response.

"Ain't you gonna say hi to her, guys?"

"I ain't saying hi to _that_ ," Two-Bit spat.

"Look here, Two-Bit…"

"Dallas, let it go. I've heard it all before." Shirley interjected, her shoulders sagging and her face giving a look of defeat.

"Typical Dallas, always looking to rock the boat," Steve comments, "only this time you rocked it so much you flipped the damn boat over."

"What're you trying to say, Steve?"

"I'm saying you dating this…this… _colored girl_ , because you want to start some shit in this town. Couldn't just follow the rules, could you?"

"Fuck you, Steve. I'm with her because I like her and she likes me back. I ain't with her to scratch an itch. Not like you."

"That's the only thing they're good for. You can stick your dick in them, but only a fool would go as far as date them."

"Better watch your mouth, Steve. Those are fighting words you're spewing."

"Gonna go to war for this nigger? Never took-"

Steve's jaw connected with Dallas's fist.

Steve collapsed, clutching his jaw.

"Dallas!" Shirley cries.

"It's like that, Dally? You're going to defend this colored girl?" Two-Bit asked.

"This _colored_ girl is _my_ girl, and she deserves some goddamn respect. C'mon, babe." Dallas grabs her hand.

They leave the two behind and walk down the street. Shirley has her head hanging down and Dallas is getting more and more irritated.

"Everyone's going to know. Everyone's looking at us. I'm in trouble. Big, big, trouble." Shirley moans.

"We'll get through this, baby. Anybody that has anything else to say about you will be answering to my fists. You dig?"

"You don't understand, Dallas. This is going to be hell. No one will accept us. The people that threw bricks at my window will come looking for you. My uncle will blow a gasket! You don't understand what you've just done. You rocked the boat, alright. You rocked the boat and now both of us are starting to drown."

"Stop talking like that, Shirley! People always got shit to say about things they know nothin' about. We'll get through this. We will."

"It's not going to happen."

"I'll _make_ it happen. I promise you, Shirley,"

He wraps his arms around her waist. He didn't care that people were staring; he wanted them to look.

He swoops in and gives her a chaste peck on the lips.

"We're in this together. They can say what they want, but I'll be damned if I let someone get in the way of us being happy."

Shirley looks up to him, her eyes watery with tears.

"You really believe that?"

"I _know_ that."

* * *

One Week Later

"Is it true?"

"Is he really?"

"You know what they say about those New Yorkers…"

"I heard he has a half-breed child in the works!"

Incessant whispers make Dallas grind his teeth as he threads a button into a doll's blouse. The workplace had been a tense spot for the past week; it's filled with rumors and hushed gossip about his and Shirley's relationship.

Gossip is one of the quickest ways to get Dallas to cease all contact with someone, especially if said gossip is about him. Every time he walks into the room, all conversation halts and is replaced with hushed whispers and hand gestures.

Shirley was right about one thing: word spreads fast and people are pretty adamant about having their opinions heard about his relationship.

"It's an abomination. Whites should stick with Whites. Negroes stick with Negroes."

"What's wrong with dating a nice, pretty, white girl? They're not good enough for you anymore?"

"You're ruining the white race! Why produce half-breed babies and jump-start the annihilation of white purity?"

"Is what they said about those Colored girls true? Are they _really_ good in bed? I've been dying to try…"

He punches Tony in the face before he could finish his sentence. After that, Tony stopped trying to talk to him anymore.

It doesn't stop there; he'd been getting nasty looks from his coworkers, some refused to even speak to him. They'd mutter _'traitor'_ _'nigger lover'_ and _'sell-out'_ under their breath whenever he walked past. It got so constant that Dallas was near his boiling point.

This is going to be much harder than he thought.

* * *

"Yo, hombre. Never thought I'd see you again. You're pretty famous 'round here, eh?"

Dallas looks up to see Miguel leaning over the railing, offering him a cigarette.

"You have no idea." Dallas takes the smoke.

* * *

"Ah, so that's what's been going on. These white boys, man. Always talking shit. No offense."

"None taken."

"They never talk to me like that, though. Sure, they assume that I don't speak English and talk shit about me. But they know to respect me. I work my ass off and you best believe I got eight jobs lined up for me that I can go to at any time. You don't need this job, man. You don't need those whiny little bitches that aren't man enough to tell you how they really feel. Fuck 'em."

Miguel exhales.

"The way I see it, if they ain't paying your bills, putting food in your mouth, clothes on your back, or a house to live in…if they ain't fucking you, their opinion doesn't matter. Who gives a shit what they think?"

"It's easy for me, not for her, man." Dallas inhales his smoke sharply.

"She gets the worst of it: people harassing her everywhere she goes, she lost her job, her uncle practically kicked her out for being seen with me and she's been living with me since. And the worst part…there's some men in white sheets coming to our doorstep and lighting a cross on fire for the past few days."

"Fucking cowards. That's the Ku Klux Klan. You better come packing. Those fuckers like to take you at your most vulnerable. Next thing you know you wind up missing and they find your body hanging from a tree somewhere out in the country."

"Jesus!"

"That's how it is down here. I lost eight people because of them. I never go anywhere without letting my family know and having a heater on me at all times. You can't be too careful these days. You might want to keep an eye on your girl. They like the dark ones, if you know what I mean."

"Jesus Christ! For the love of...who in their right mind would…?"

"It's a mystery. The scariest part, you don't know who is behind that sheet. It could be your friend, a lawyer, police officer, maybe even your teacher. I'm going to tell you this as a friend…trust no one." He looks around and pulls him close. Dallas sees him write something down and cram it into his hands.

"You and Shirley need to meet up with me at 8:00 PM tonight on the Southside. There's this group…they originated from California…some of them moved here and are taking action for the safety of black youth. Maybe they can help you out. They certainly helped me and my wife out."

"You have a wife?"

"Yeah. Her name is Amara." He looks to the sky, a warm smile on his face.

"God I love that woman."

* * *

Dallas clutches Shirley's hand as they make their way to Miguel's house. He knocks three times and the slot slides over.

" _Down with whitey._ " Dallas deadpans, ignoring the snicker of Shirley. The door opens. They are greeted with black men and women in wearing all black, holding rifles and stern looks. Front and center is a black fist crudely drawn over the American flag. Sitting in the center are two black men, one wearing dreadlocks and a colorful dashiki while the other is wearing a black leather jacket, turtleneck, slacks, and combat boots. His afro is peeking under his beret.

Miguel beams at them, clad in a black leather coat, his curly hair sticking out under his beret. A dark skinned black woman clings to him, wearing a black turtleneck and jean skirt.

"Welcome Dallas and Shirley. Guys, I want you to meet Bobby Thomas and James Kutcher, members of the Black Panther Party."


	8. Chapter 8: Man to Man

**Harlem, New York, 1954**

"Mom, how do you know if you like a girl?"

Mrs. Winston looks up from the dish she was washing and turns to her son. He's standing there, hands in his pockets and his lips pursed in a twist. His legs are crossed and he's twisting to and fro.

"Well, sweetie. What gave you that idea?"

"Well, Ma…I've been talking to Delilah, and sometimes, when I see her, I get butterflies in my stomach."

"Hmm…" she taps her chin.

"Well, Delilah is a pretty girl, and she's very delightful."

"Mom, I think I like her. I want to ask her if…she wants to be my girl."

"Honey," she sighs, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"Because…when…" she runs her fingers through her hair, eyebrows knit together in irritation.

"Dallas, you can't ask her to be your girl because…the world isn't…accepting."

"Accepting?"

"In this day and age, people have issues with whom you choose to love and whom you choose to date. Anything that's different from what's considered normal causes problems. People will say some very hurtful things and do hurtful things to you and her because Delilah isn't white."

"What's wrong with her not being white?"

"Nothing, sweetie. But for many people, her not being white is what's wrong. It doesn't matter if she's smart, honest, and good-hearted. Her skin and who her parents are is what makes people hate her."

"Why do people hate her?"

"Because people hate what they don't understand. That's why, I don't want you to ask Delilah out. It's to keep you two safe. Maybe, in a perfect world, people learn to love one another regardless of color. But the way people are now, I doubt that's a reality." She sighs.

"I wonder if _Nonno_ ever went through this."

"Grandpa?"

"Dallas, can I tell you a secret?"

"What is it?"

"I've always been upfront with your father, but I never told him about…my ancestry. I haven't been honest with him about where I came from."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your great-grandfather isn't a pure-blood Sicilian man. He's a mulatto. Your great-grandfather passed for white and denied his heritage until he was on his death bed. His wife knew for a very long time but hid it for safety reasons."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"The world is cruel to those who don't fit into whatever box they're forced into. I'm ashamed of hiding that dirty secret, especially from your father." She sighs.

"When your father says those hurtful things about Colored people, it hurts. Because those teachings and those words were what my grandfather told me, ignoring that his mother was a slave. He ignored that because of those teachings he was forced to deny his heritage for his own safety. I wanted to tell your father, but he's so brainwashed by this Aryan garbage that I'm afraid it will kill him."

"Do you think Dad will change his mind? That…he won't think the way he thinks no more?"

Her eyes sadden.

"I don't know, sweetheart. But I want you to know that you have a right to love whomever you choose, but the world is in a bad spot right now. I'm positive love will change it for the better. Love…" she cups her cheek.

"Love fixes all. All it needs is time."

* * *

" _Papa, we need to talk."_

It feels so foreign, speaking his native tongue to his father. It's been eight weeks since he last spoke to him; he didn't take Dallas dating Shirley too fondly.

" _There is nothing that needs to be talked about, Dallas. You chose that…lifestyle, and I don't approve of it."_

Dallas is in his office, clenching and unclenching his fists and swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Lifestyle?" he grits out in English, his eyebrows crossed.

"All I'm doing is dating someone who I care about. What makes me dating someone a… _lifestyle_?"

"She's a colored girl, Dallas. Have you forgotten what I told you when you were thirteen?"

"I was young enough to know that what you're saying was wrong. A woman's color got no value on her worth as a person. Pop, you've lived in New York, _America_ , for over 20 years. You've met, talked to, worked for, eaten with, women who are Negro, Puerto Rican, Chinese and every other nationality across the globe in your life time. You are old enough to know that those women are no different than a regular old white girl."

"I never _dated_ or _slept_ with them, Dallas. Races should stick with their own races."

"What about me, Pop? Did you forget that your union with Ma made me? I'm a _mutt_ , Dad. I'm the very thing your teachings preached against!"

"That's different! Teresa was—"

"Sicilian. You are German. She doesn't fit the criteria of your Aryan teachings because she's mixed with African blood. You have been married to the opposite of your racist teachings for over 13 years."

" _Lies! Blasphemy! I should have you beat for desecrating—"_

"Pop, she told me. _She_ _told_ _me._ " His eyes stare into his father's. He hates how alike they look; it's like looking into the mirror at times. His father looks back and he knew he was telling the truth.

"No," he whispers softly.

"No, not my Teresa…"

"Pop, you _loved_ her. You loved her for her character. You loved her because she made you happy. You loved her because she's caring, kind, and she had a big heart. You loved her for her, regardless of where she came from. You loved and accepted her for who she was. You broke all of your rules for her." Dallas softens.

"I'm with Shirley because she makes me happy. I'm with her because of the way she makes me feel. I don't care if she's black. I don't care if she's not German. I don't care that she doesn't fit into the cookie-cutter mold of who I'm supposed to be with. I like her, Pop. I like her a lot."

"I can't…this is all too much…"

"The world is changing. People are changing." He sits down beside his father.

"Mom told me, before she died, that your hateful beliefs will stick with you and it hurt her, Pop. It hurt her so bad. That's why she hid that part of herself from you, because of your hatred."

"I'd never mean to hurt her…"

"But you did. You hurt her and you hurt me. I was ashamed to bring you around my friends because of the things you'd say. I'd pretend I didn't even _have_ a father because of how much you embarrassed me. Even Mom had to deny being around you sometimes when she's out with her friends. They knew you as ' _The_ _Nazi from Down the Hall'_ and they'd _laugh_ at you."

"I thought they liked me…"

"They _hated_ you! _Why did you think you weren't invited to the neighborhood parties and cookouts for the longest time? Mom and I had to lie about where we're going so it wouldn't hurt your feelings. You don't understand that when you say those things, you're looked at as an asshole. An idiot. Oklahoma is the right place for that ignorance but not New York. They_ _ **think**_ _in New York._ "

" _Don't insult my intelligence, son. I can't believe this whole time…I thought Carol liked me_ …"

"She hated you most of all. The only reason she tolerated you was because you're married to Mom. _Ms. Evers made fun of your accent and nicknamed you 'Lederhosen'. Sister Guyana prayed you'd burn in hell after you called those Puerto Rican orphans wetbacks_ …" Dallas counts off with his fingers. He sucks his teeth.

"I don't even know _how_ you managed to piss off the most patient and the most devoted woman of God, but you did it. Kudos to you."

"I'm so embarrassed. I can't believe I earned the wrath of a nun." Mr. Winston runs his fingers through his hair.

"It's in the past. All I'm saying is that you prove Mom wrong. You can change, you can learn to love. Give her a chance, Pop. That's all I'm asking." He claps his hand over his father's.

"Man to man, I need someone in my corner when my back's against the wall. I really need your support."

He looks at his son, with tears in his eyes.

"For you and your mother, I'll try. One day at a time."

For the first time in years, he hugs his father.

"I love you, Pop."

"Love you too, son."

* * *

 **AN: Nonno* = _Grandpa_ in Italian. If there's any fluent Italian speakers reading this, if it's inaccurate let me know so I can change it. **

**I included the story regarding Teresa's heritage because racial identity is an often murky subject, especially those who are mixed race or white passing. I learned that there has been many African slaves that migrated to Italy/Sicily and racially mixed, so Teresa's ancestry isn't unlikely.**

 **I want to give thanks for all the support and love for this story. It's much appreciated and much loved. Thank you. :)**


	9. Chapter 9: Meeting the Parents Redux

Chapter 9: Meeting the Parents Redux

"Pop…stop…touching…her hair." Dallas grits out, his cheeks flushed red.

" _It's so…soft. Like…cotton_."

" _You did_ _ **not**_ _just say that!_ "

Shirley smiles thinly, looking to Dallas for comfort.

"He seems…like a nice guy." She grins at Mr. Winston. He smiles sheepishly and untangles his hands from her curls.

"Apologies. I've never touched Negro hair before."

" _Jesus Christ,_ Dad!" Dallas groans, running his fingers through his hair. Shirley pales, eyes widening in shock at what his father had just said.

"You're so embarrassing. I'm so sorry, Shirley. He's…not normally like this."

"It's okay, Dallas," Shirley answers softly, "Nothing I've never heard before."

"I am sorry." Mr. Winston.

"I'm learning that saying Negro is a bad thing. Dallas has been…teaching me, about the customs of your people."

"For the love of…" Dallas yanks at his hair. Shirley chuckles.

"Don't get upset, baby. He doesn't know any better."

 _That's why it's embarrassing_ , Dallas thinks, but brushes it aside.

"You want some tea, Mr. Winston? It's pretty cold this time around."

"Yes, please."

"Okay, Dallas?"

"Honey, this isn't work. I can go make it myself. Relax and take a load off. You've been on your feet all day." He guides her to the couch next to his father, ignoring the obvious signs of discomfort on her face.

"Play nice, okay?" he smiles at both of them before making his way into the kitchen.

He grabs two mugs from the cupboards and pours the water, straining his ears to hear them talking. When the tea kettle was on the stove, he leans against the corner where the two can't see him and listens.

"You're…not what I expected…when he told me about you." Mr. Winston begins.

"I told him to not bring home a…African-American," he enunciates the word sharply. Dallas had taught him well.

"I had my doubts, I had all of these beliefs about your kind, but…"

But what?

"But after talking with you and seeing how sweet you are and how happy you make my son, I can see why Dallas keeps you around. You remind him of Teresa."

"Who's Teresa?"

"His mother. She died when he was a young boy. Teresa, she was such a sweet woman, a kind-hearted soul. God knew what an angel he had so he took her away. I spent many nights crying, asking God why he couldn't have taken me instead. But I know now."

"What do you know?"

"I know I am on this Earth to learn right from wrong and to honor my wife's name and my son's wishes of accepting people, regardless of color. To learn to love."

Pause.

"You, my dear, are one beautiful lesson. I couldn't have asked for a better step-daughter."

Step-daughter?

"S-sir? I beg your pardon…"

"I expect 5 grandchildren from you."

Dallas choked on his spit.

"Dallas? Honey, you okay?" Shirley's concerned voice makes Dallas scramble to the stove and control coughing.

"Yeah, Shirl." He croaks out, "I'm fine. I've never been better."

"Son!" his father calls out, " _Next time you decide to eavesdrop, don't make it obvious._ "

"How long have you known?"

"Long enough. Shame on you, ear hustling while this lovely lady and I are chatting." His father enters the kitchen, blue eyes crinkling in mischief. He now understands where he gets it from.

"It was nice meeting you, Shirley." He smiles at her. "I'd love to stay, but I got a card game with Mr. and Mrs. Kaczynski and I got some cash I need to win. I expect to see you two at my home for dinner, yes? Jolene makes a mean meatloaf." He kisses his fingers.

"Who's Jolene, Pop?"

"One of my clients. Her light fixture got shot so I came over and repaired it. She was so impressed she insisted on making dinner. It was supposed to be for two, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind having two more guests."

"Pop…I think she just asked you out. On a date."

"Nonsense! She's just cooking me dinner out of the kindness of her heart! Besides, we can't eat all that meatloaf ourselves! Well, I could, but I don't want to look like a pig in front of her." He chuckles. He throws on his coat and scarf.

He makes his way out the door.

"Tonight, you two. Don't be impolite and not come." He looks over at Dallas. He nods his head awkwardly. He exits the door, but before he could leave, he turns around to face the two.

"And by the way," he grins.

"Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," the couple say in unison. The two close the door.

"The New Year isn't till tomorrow, though." Shirley scratches her head.

"New Year's Eve is still New Years. We're going to spend New Year's Eve with my Pop. That's a first." Dallas chuckles.

"You got any New Year's Eve wishes, honey?" She looks at him.

"My New Year's wish…" he scratches his chin and pulls Shirley to him.

"Is to spend another New Years with you." He beams at her, his lips ghosting over her. She snorts.

"You are so cheesy!"

"You love it."

"You have a point. It grows on me like a fungus." She strokes his hair.

"I'm happy I met you, Shirley. You're one of a kind."

"You're just buttering me up so I won't make you do the dishes."

"Is it working?"

They kiss.

"Not on your life. Get scrubbing."


	10. Chapter 10: Traffic Stop

**AN: I'm going to warn you guys right now. This chapter features police brutality and mentions of r*pe. if this is a problem to you, avert your eyes and you can skip to Chapter 11 once I get it set up. But the r*pe will be mentioned throughout the story because it is one of the many pivotal parts of the story. So you have been warned. This chapter is how this story got a high T rating and now it's rated M because of this chapter. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

* * *

Chapter 10: Traffic Stop

Dallas drove down the quiet road with Shirley, his thumb tapping against the steering wheel. The radio was blasting some old tunes that he remembered his father dance to when he was growing up. He looks over his shoulder to find his girl slumped over his shoulder, snoring softly, and thinks, maybe, just maybe, this is where he wants to be.

Before he could enjoy the bliss, he sees a police car signal for him to pull over.

He snarls. He knows he's driving the legal speed limit, he hasn't been drinking, and he hasn't any warrants that he knows of since he started working. He pulls over, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.

The police officer makes his way to the driver's side and flashes his light in Dallas' face.

"Is there a problem, officer?" Dallas asks, keeping his voice even.

"You know why I stopped you?" The officer asks. Dallas eyes his nametag and stores it in his memory banks: James McCormick.

"No, sir, I don't. You care to tell me why?"

The officer sees Shirley, his prejudice evident in his face.

"There's been… _suspicious activity_ …around the neighborhood. I had calls saying to look out for a car that matched your description."

Dallas mentally rolls his eyes. He knows where this is going.

"What kind of… _suspicious activity_ is you looking for, sir? All we're doing is driving to my father's home for dinner."

"I believe that information is classified. Step out the car."

Taking a deep breath, he opens the car door and stands outside, facing the officer.

"Lady, ma'am. Wake up." He flashes the flashlight into Shirley's face. She jerks awake, seeing the officer.

"Wh-what's going on? Dallas, what happened?"

"Well, miss, there's been reports of solicitation of prostitution. We're told to be on the lookout for a Negro prostitute and her white john."

" _Excuse me?_ "

"Woah, woah, woah. Officer…you're barking up the wrong tree." Dallas interjects.

"Ma'am, step outside and put your hands against the car. We need to search you."

"You can't do that; you can't search someone without a warrant." Dallas shields Shirley.

"Step aside, punk." The officer brandishes his baton.

"You're too much of a coward to put your hands on me like a real man, pussy?" Dallas goads him.

"Dallas," Shirley interjects, "Stop. Let's just get this over with so we can go home."

"Better listen to that Negro, Dallas. She's speaking some common sense."

Dallas scowls. Shirley stands outside the car, the cold making her shiver. She braces her hands against the hood of the car. The officer stands behind her.

"Spread your legs."

Shirley pales, but otherwise complies. The officer pats her down, leaving his hands to linger on her breasts, hips, and thighs. He especially takes his sweet time fondling her naked legs, working all the way to where the legs stop. Shirley bites her lip, shuddering in breaths.

"God _damn_ ," the officer breathes out, "you got a nice ass." He grabs it without warning, making Shirley gasp.

"Get your fucking hands off her, you pervert!" Dallas charges at him, but is halted when his body is pinned to the ground by an unseen force.

"Thomas! Just in time!" the officer greets. The force seems to add more weight; Dallas feels his air supply shorten.

"I can't breathe," Dallas wheezes out.

" _I can't breathe."_

"Stop! Stop, _please_! Get _off_ of him!" Shirley shrieks.

"Do what you're told or you can get it too." She's slammed against the hood of the car, her hair being yanked by the cop.

"You should've just stuck with your own race… _nigger_."

"No… _no!_ " Dallas struggles from underneath the massive weight.

He won't die like this.

He refuses to die like this…

He feels his vision getting darker, he hears the muffled screams of Shirley…

Everything starts to fade into white noise.

All he saw was darkness.

" _Dallas…Dallas…don't die on me, man! Don't you_ _ **fucking**_ _die!"_

He comes to, bright light making his head hurt. He adjusts to his surroundings, and finds himself in Tim's house. Tim, Curly, Angela, and Buck, crowd around him with worry in their eyes.

"You're okay," Angela whispers. She embraces him.

"You…I thought you were dead!"

"Those fucking pigs, man." Curly shakes his head, cramming a cancer stick in his mouth.

"What happened? Where's Shirley…"

"Dal…your girl…" Tim sighs, "your girl is with Darry."

"I need to see her. I need to know if she's okay!"

"Dallas, you might want to sit down for this." Angela sighs.

"When…when we got there and fought off the pigs and got you…we…we found a Colored girl… in the bushes. She…she ain't got no clothes on." Tim's voice wavers. "She was bleeding real bad. We told Darry and he told us that she was your girl. I'm so sorry, Dallas…"

"No. _No!_ Not Shirley…anyone but Shirley…" Dallas runs his fingers through his hair, fighting the tears threatening to fall.

"Darry took her to his house to patch her up and keep her calm for a few days. We'll take you there to see her but you need to rest. You just woke up and we can't have you passing out because you're over-excited." Buck interjects.

"I have to see her. Now." Dallas' eyes harden. The gang looks at each other and with a solemn nod, obliges.

Dallas barges into the Curtis household, concern and bloodlust waging a war in his mind. He needs to see Shirley, he needs to punish those responsible, he needs…

"Dallas."

He stops in his tracks.

It's his father, eyes bloodshot and puffy, clutching a beer bottle and holding Shirley close like a daughter.

"Son. Oh, son." He says softly, another tear rolling down his face.

" _What have they done to my boy?_ "


	11. Chapter 11: Hard Times

Chapter 11: Hard Times

"Dallas, Dallas you have to breathe." Mr. Winston cups his son's face. Dallas sees his father, but can't make the words out to talk.

"What did they do to her?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Shirley lies on the couch, clothed in an oversized raincoat draped over her shoulders, but he could see her naked and bloodied flesh underneath. She's sleeping, or at least that's what he's hoping for; the swollen jaw, the black eye, and the angry purple markings around her neck makes him sick…

"I think you already know what they did to her, Dally." Darry leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching over Shirley like a hawk. Ponyboy peeks out from the corner of Darry and sees the spectacle in horror.

"We need to call the police. We need…"

"The _police_ did this, Ponyboy," Darry looks over at his little brother, signs of premature aging evident in his features.

"You think the police are going to bring their comrades to justice? Turn their back on their own?" Steve sneers. He'd been sitting against the kitchen counter, knocking back a beer and scowling. Dallas is not in the mood to deal with his shit.

"Well what can we do? If people do something wrong, we take them to justice and hold them accountable! They can't get away with this. This is wrong. So wrong." Ponyboy shakes his head.

"That's just the way it is. It's been this way since the beginning of time." Steve knocks back the last of the beer.

"It wouldn't have happened if Dally didn't date that colored girl. She's more trouble than she's worth."

"Shut your goddamn mouth, Steve. It ain't their fault some cops didn't know how to do their job right." Darry barks.

"Now is not the time to hear your two cents. Dally almost died tonight and a woman had been… _violated_ , by men who broke their promise to their citizens."

"Ain't the first time," Buck interjects. He's sitting on the side of the couch, looking over Shirley.

"They say they're here to protect us, but they're too busy beating the shit outta us with batons, shooting us like we're dogs, and throwing us in the cooler just because. The pigs ain't to be trusted. Let that be a lesson for your ol' girl, Dally."

Dallas rises to strike, but is halted by his father.

" _Now isn't the time to fly off the handle, son. Shirley needs you to be strong._ " Mr. Winston whispers.

"What the hell, Dal? I thought this was _America_ , old man. _Speak English_." Steve sneers.

"Yes, this is _America_ , not _England_. If I wanted to go to a country that spoke predominantly _English_ , I would've went to _England_. I speak _three languages_ and you only speak _one_. Keep up." Mr. Winston retorts. Steve looks taken aback, but otherwise says nothing.

"Dallas, I want you to understand that if you need anything, anything at all, you can tell me. My door is always open."

"Thanks, Pop. But I don't think that'll be necessary. This is my life, my problem. I'll handle it."

"You can't handle it alone, Dal. You need people in your corner." Ponyboy pipes up.

"He's right, Dal. You can't go it alone. You can't fight this battle alone. We can't have you going off the deep end, like what happened with Johnny…"

Dallas flinches. The wound is still fresh when Johnny died. The memory still stings.

"Maybe not now, but know this, Dal." Darry pats his shoulder.

"We'll always be there. It's a Greaser promise."

"Yeah, Dally. We're here, come hell or high water. We'll be there. Just say the word." Tim says. Dallas nods his head, fighting the emotions bubbling up in his body. He's thankful for their support, but he doesn't know if he'll find the strength to give the word.

Instead, he clutches Shirley's warm hand, hoping to get an ounce of strength from her so he could go on.

He's failed Johnny.

He refuses to fail Shirley.

* * *

Dallas was dreaming and sleeping deeply when he feels warmth spread at the side of his hip. He wakes up, turns on the lamp and yanks off the covers, and sees the wet spot where Shirley lays.

He gently shakes her awake. Shirley jolts with a startle, sees Dallas and relaxes.

"Baby," Dallas sighs, "you did it again." He points to the wet spot. Shirley's face contorts in shame.

"Oh, shit. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so…so…"

Dallas shushes her.

"It's okay, honey. Get up. I'll throw 'em in the washer and wipe down the plastic cover. C'mon."

Shirley slinks out of the bed, embarrassment evident on her face. Dallas swoops up the sheets and blankets in record time, exposing the thick plastic covering protecting the mattress from further abuse.

"The blankets and sheets will be in the closet. I washed those this morning." Dallas huffs, taking a hot rag and wiping down the urine that managed to pool in the crevice of the plastic. Shirley makes her way to the closet but he stops her.

"Hop in the shower, doll. I'll throw your clothes in the washer, okay?"

She nods, taking off her nightgown and soiled undergarments. She hands them to Dallas, who tosses them on the pile. When she's out of sight, Dallas sits on the carpet floor, sighing deeply and running his fingers through his hair in exhaustion.

This had been going on for at least a week since that night; it had gotten to where Dallas had become Shirley's caretaker than her lover. The bubbly waitress is now skittish, constantly looking over her shoulder and needing Dallas within her line of sight to keep her calm. It had put a strain on the couple; Dallas needs to work more hours to pay the rising costs of living yet Shirley needs him now more than ever.

He's stuck between a rock and a hard place; be there for Shirley and risk losing his job, or crank out the long hours at work and abandon Shirley in her time of need?

She has no more family to turn to; Uncle Red doesn't even want her around his family because of Dallas and no amount of hoping and wishing is going to make them come around any sooner. She could stay at Darry's, but Dallas doubts Darry wants to share a home with a stranger, despite Darry insisting he doesn't have a problem with it. There's Tim's, but he asks too many questions and he's not exactly the most social; his train-wreck of a family would be the final nail in the coffin. Buck is too reckless, Sylvia is a definite no, his last option has to be…his father.

He throws the linens in the washing machine, cranking up the dial to 'hot'; he wants the smell of piss out of the sheets permanently. He drowns the washing machine with washing powder and slams the lid shut while it washes. As the clothes wash, he rifles through the cabinet for a towel and makes his way to the shower.

He knocks softly; she's become more sensitive to sound these days.

"Shirley, I'm coming in the shower, okay? I'm going to wash up with you while the water's still hot."

Pause.

"Okay."

Dallas peels back the shower curtain and sees Shirley's naked body glistening under the water and fights his anger. He sees those ugly red and purple marks on her body, especially those deep, deep bruises in the shape of handprints lingering on the swell of her hips.

"If I see those fuckers again, I'm going to kill them. I'm going to make them pay for what they did to you." Dallas whispers against her neck. He kisses it softly, wrapping his arms around her. Shirley relaxes with a sigh, holding on to his arms.

"What good will that do? You'll be locked up or dead and they'll come after me. That's how they are." She kisses his palm.

"They can't get away with doing that to you, for putting us through this. They deserve to rot in the worst hell God has to offer."

"And they will. They will answer to God for what they did. The God I believe in isn't as forgiving as I am."

"They don't deserve your forgiveness, Shirley. They don't." he kisses her neck again, pulling her closer. He kisses her collar bone, her cheek, and the side of her lips. He works his way up to her temple and leaves his lips there.

"Oh, Dallas." She shudders in a breath, her voice cracking. She breaks down crying.

"Why me? Why did it have to be me?"

"I don't know, honey. I don't know." He buries his face into her hair.

"I ask myself that question every day."

* * *

"Dallas, can I talk to you for a second?"

Dallas was busy painting the lips on another doll when he hears his boss. He puts the doll down and looks at him.

"What's the problem?"

"Follow me in my office."

* * *

"Are you fucking serious?" Dallas grinds his teeth, murder in his eyes. His boss slinks back in his chair.

"Dallas, you are a great worker, the best of my employees, but I'm going to have to let you go. You've been coming in late for the past week and your presence has my employees distracted. You're creating unnecessary conflict with your home life."

"Boss, I've been working my ass off. My girlfriend had been raped and beaten nearly to death. She needs me…"

"…but you need this job more. And frankly, I can't have you bringing that drama to the workplace."

"So you're going to fuck me over because some bitch employee complained to you about shit that has nothing to do with my work ethic?"

"I'm sorry, Dallas. If there's any comfort to you I can refer—"

"Save your fucking pity. You done cut off the arm I use to feed myself and you have the nerve to tell me you're sorry. Fuck you." He storms out the office and slams the door as hard as he could. Every employee stops what they're doing and looks at him.

"To whoever decided to rat on me about my private life, go eat a dick." He spits at the ground and exits the factory.

* * *

Two Weeks Later

Dallas crosses off yet another Help Wanted ad in the newspaper, massaging his aching temples. Shirley rubs his back in smooth circles, offering him yet another cup of coffee.

"Just keep throwing your net, baby. I'm sure you'll find one."

He instead huffs, balling up the newspaper and throwing it in the trash.

Ever since he got fired, finding work has been more difficult than he ever imagined. It's either he's underqualified, got too much of a criminal record, or his relationship with Shirley got wind and they had to cut him loose because of their beliefs. Bills are rising, they've been eating chocolate cake (courtesy of Sodapop) for weeks and it's starting to make them sick. Buck's car broke down and it costs some serious dough to fix it, and the rodeos stopped calling him.

These are hard times.

Dallas tosses his coat on.

"Where you're going?" Shirley asks.

"Out." Dallas huffs, slamming the door.

* * *

He finds himself at Buck's once again, in his old room, drinking the bottle of whiskey he hid in the floorboards and lying back on his old ratty mattress where Bettie Page's naughty face winks at him through the harsh red lighting.

He doesn't want to think for the most part. He just wants to black out and escape, just for a moment. He'll get back to reality, he'll think of a plan, he'll…

"Look what the cat dragged in. Dallas-Motherfucking-Winston. I'd never thought I'd see your face in these parts. You got enough of that jungle fever and decided to come to the light?"

"I don't want to hear it, Sylvia. I want you out of my face before I—"

"—Before you what? ' _Beat the tar outta me_ '? You sound like a broken record, love." Sylvia slinks over to him, trailing her long fingernail down his chest.

"You know I'm just teasing. It's always good to see you."

That long black hair falls over his face like a curtain, the smell of her cheap perfume bringing back memories of happier times. Those cherry red lips seem to glow in the light, inviting and tempting for him to taste. Her lips ghost over his, playful.

"I miss you, you know." She's straddling him now, her panties peeking through her short skirt. Dallas feels his mouth get dry.

"You were always so, so good to me."

She rocks against him slowly, making all his troubles disappear. He finds his fingers slide underneath her top and peel it off of her.

He wants to forget for a while.

 _Her lips are kissing his neck, nipping at the parts that get him hot…_

He doesn't want to think about Shirley, his apartment, his family, his problems.

 _He's kissing back, guiding her delicate hands to his zipper…_

He needs this, he needs this so much.

 _He slams her body against the mattress, her creamy legs wrapped around his bare hips…_

It's wrong, so wrong.

" _Dallas, faster, faster,_ _ **faster**_ _!" Her nails dig into his back…_

But it feels too good to stop.

In all his bad luck, he deserves to feel good for once.


	12. Chapter 12: She's Gone

Chapter 12: She's Gone

Dallas wakes up with a pounding headache and a taste of alcohol and bad decisions. He feels a body in the bed next to him, and, believing it to be Shirley, runs to tangle his fingers in her hair…

This isn't her hair.

Panic settles in; he adjusts his eyes to his surroundings.

This isn't his bed.

This isn't his room.

He peels back the covers.

They're naked.

The mysterious woman groans and turns on her side facing him.

It's Sylvia.

Memories of last night flash before his eyes and the feelings of guilt, shame, and terror erupt in his body…and his stomach. He slides out of the bed and makes his way to the downstairs bathroom after buttoning his jeans.

Throwing up the last of the alcohol, he guzzles water from the bathroom sink and spits out the residue.

"Dally? Dal? You in here?"

Buck's worried voice makes him jolt. He opens the door and sees his friend look at him with worry.

"Your old lady been worried sick. She done rounded up your dad and Darry and they'd been looking all over for you. I told them you weren't here because…" he gestures upstairs.

"Oh, God, what have I done?" he runs his fingers through his hair.

"You tell me, man. Good God Almighty, is Sylvia a loud one! I guess that's why you can't get enough eh?"

"It's a mistake. A horrible mistake." He sighs.

"It never happened. Keep your mouth shut. This never happened, and it will never happen again."

"My lips are sealed, but I'm more worried about Sylvia's end…"

They both look upstairs.

"We'll get to that crossroad when we get there. Now, I need to go home. She's waiting for me."

"Good luck, man. You're gonna need it when Sylvia wakes up and doesn't find you there."

"She'll live."

Dallas finds his jacket, throws it on, and leaves Buck's.

* * *

"Where the hell have you been? I've been up all night waiting for you! Do you know how scared I was? I thought you had died, I thought you were in a ditch somewhere! I was so scared, so…" Shirley breaks down into tears. Dallas swoops her up in his arms and hugs her.

"Baby, baby, shh…I was out drinking and I crashed over their place because I know you wouldn't want me coming home drunk. Don't cry, baby. I'm here, now, you dig?"

"I'm so glad you're…" she trails off.

"What's wrong, doll—"

"—you smell like perfume…" she pulls away from him. She grabs his jacket and pulls it down at his neck.

"Is…is that a hickey?"

"Baby, I can explain…"

"Get out."

"What?"

"Did I stutter? Get. Out." She flails out of his arms.

"Baby, you don't have to—"

"—Get out."

"—if you just let me—"

"—Get out."

"Shirley—"

"Get the _fuck_ out of this house!" she's hitting him on the shoulders, chest, and arms.

"I had gotten _ostracized_ from my family, _blacklisted_ from getting a job, _beaten_ and _raped_ by the _fucking_ _police_ because of you and _this_ is how you repay me? By _fucking some whore_?"

"Shirley—"

"I can't even _look at you_ right now. Go. Go until I can deal with this! Go!"

"But I paid for—"

"You think I care? Get out!" She points to the door.

"It's like that?"

"It's like that."

"It was a mistake, Shirley. I was angry and she was there…"

"I don't want to hear it. Get out, please. Go."

"I love you, Shirley…"

"People who love each other don't sleep around behind their backs. Get gone."

Dallas looks at her, the words dying on his tongue. He walks out the door and she slams it behind him.

* * *

"Kids these days!" Mr. Winston shakes his head. Dallas lies back on his couch, nursing a hangover.

"Pop, not today…"

"Oh, you're gonna _hear_ _it_ today! Damn your feelings!" He pops a beer.

"Out of all the people you could've chosen to cheat on your girlfriend with, it had to be fucking Sylvia!" He crinkles his nose.

"That girl is nothing but trouble. If your mother met her, she'd kill you for being so stupid. There are such better options out there, son! That cute brunette from down the block, that blonde girl that comes by with that Sodapop fellow…maybe even that… _Sherri_ , _Cherry_ , whatever the hell her name is. That girl is _classy_."

" _That girl_ wanted me for a quick fuck and street cred. Nothing gets a stuck-up girl's engine running than a bad boy to piss off their daddy. Some class." Dallas snorts.

"But she's much better than Sylvia. Sylvia doesn't work, she's not educated, she has no home training whatsoever…"

"…And she was there for me when I needed her and I'm still sweet on her. We got history together, Pop."

"Some history is meant to be forgotten. You are supposed to turn a new leaf, start fresh. That girl is going to have you back in your old ways…"

"It's over between us, Pop. It was a moment of weakness." Dallas sighs.

"I've been stressing, being Shirley's caretaker than her lover, cleaning those sheets every single night because she's been peeing in the bed. I lost my job and it's been hard looking for one. Bills have been piling up and we're about to lose the apartment…I just wanted to fade away that night. I was drinking, Sylvia was there, and…" Dallas grabs at his hair.

"If I could change what I did, I would. But I can't. I have to deal with it. I was a cheating dog and she put me in the dog house because of it. I just gotta wait it out until she lets me come back inside."

"You can stay here for as long as you need. You two living together isn't the smartest decision, anyway. She needs to go back to her family, get her life back on track. And you need time to take care of yourself. Think of this as a good thing."

"Pop, I hurt her. I hurt her bad."

"I know. But your mother always told me the deepest wounds can heal over time."

* * *

"I think we should break up."

Dallas almost spit out his drink. They're at Buck's, in Dallas's old room, shielded away from prying eyes.

"For our own sake." Shirley adds to soften the blow.

It had been two weeks since Dallas' infidelity had been discovered, two weeks since they decided a little air from each other is best. Now she wants to break it off permanently?

"Why?"

"For starters, you cheated on me." She retorts.

"Secondly, this is just bad timing for both of us. Everyone has a problem with us being together and look where it got us. It's been a wonderful couple of months, but it's not worth all of this hardship. It's put a strain on both of us; we're stressed out, always looking over our shoulder, drained." She shakes her head.

"Fuck what everyone has to say—"

"—Look where it got us, Dal. I've been harassed, beaten, _violated_ , ostracized from my family, practically homeless and blacklisted from working in this town and to top it all off the one person I needed in my corner went behind my back and fucked some broad. I can't put up with this. I'm breaking up with you before my heart gets too broken and I can't repair it. I'm sorry." She slides of the ring Dallas gave her and pressed it into his palm.

"I have to focus on me, right now. I have to get my life back on track. I can't live with looking over my shoulder and having you as my nurse than as my lover. I love you, Dallas. But I'm afraid this love isn't enough to save our relationship and us. It's for the best."

She kisses him softly on the lips. Dallas pulls her close.

"You call that a goodbye kiss? If you're going to kiss me goodbye, make it count." He breathes against her lips. He kisses her with all of his might, trying to will her into rethinking her decision, into believing that maybe their relationship could be saved. He becomes desperate; he pulls her so close to him he nearly smothers her. He kisses her neck, suckles on the collarbone, whispering praises and promises he knows he'll keep if she gives him another chance. She halts him.

"Stop. Don't make it harder than it already is." Her eyes are shimmering with tears.

"Stay. Please. _Please_." He cups her face, his forehead touching hers.

" _I can't. I can't stay. I'm sorry_." The tears fell. She pushes him away, grabs her purse, and heads out the door.

"It's for our own good. Maybe one day, people won't care who's dating who. Maybe there will be a time where people can love whoever without consequence. But I don't see it in this lifetime. Not at all." She wipes away her tears.

"I love you, Dallas. I love you so much it hurts. But I have to go. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry." She closes the door.

"Shirley. Shirley, wait!" He runs after her.

"Shirley, Shirley, _Shirley_!" he hollers out after her, but it's too late.

She's gone.

He turns and finds everyone staring at him.

"What the _fuck_ are you looking at?" He snaps. The partygoers flinch but say nothing. Dallas stalks back to his old room and slams the door. He steps on something and he tumbles onto his bed. Groaning, he picks the offending object out of his foot and finds the ring Shirley left behind.

"She's gone." He says to the room.

"She's really gone."

No matter how hard he fights it, the tears come.

And he lets them.


	13. Chapter 13: Wake Up Alone

Chapter Thirteen: Wake Up Alone

It's been six months since Shirley broke up with Dallas. Six months, 15 days, 3 hours, 36 minutes and 15 seconds. As much as Dallas hates to admit it, he misses her. Every time the clock ticked by, his apartment felt colder, lonelier. She'd came back two weeks ago to retrieve her things; Dallas purposely started an argument, trying to look for that spark, that fire in her that wanted them back together. But to his disappointment, she didn't even put up a fight; she grabbed what she could and crammed it into her car. And when he became a little too much, she sent what appeared to be her brother up to his apartment, hand on the pistol tucked in his pants as a warning.

He'd let him take what he could grab, pocketed little trinkets of Shirley into the seats of his couch to remember her by. He stood out on the porch when the brother was finished, watching that car pull off down the street, his memories and half of their shit leaving with it. After that, despite what his friends insisted he didn't do, he went looking for her all over town, but always wound up empty-handed. It's like she disappeared into thin air; the closest thing he had was some gossip among the black girls at the hair salon down 65th that said she'd moved to Atlanta to be with family.

He was crushed, but not as bad as when he came home to see a package with no return address and when he opened it, it was all the love letters they'd sent each other during their relationship. The note, in Shirley's handwriting, saying, ' _I decided to send these back. Too many memories. Please stop looking for me. I'm not trying to be found_.'

It took everything he had not to slip into a fit of rage and angst.

He has to self-preserve. He did it with Johnny. He'll do it with Shirley.

* * *

"We need to talk, man."

Dallas is nursing a hangover while Miguel wrings out the dish rag he used to mop up his friend's vomit. Miguel drapes the freshly cleaned dish rag over the counter and walks over to Dallas with ginger ale.

"I think you have a drinking problem."

"Mind your fucking business. I ain't got no drinking problem." Dallas snaps, snatching the glass of ginger ale and downing it in seconds.

"Better watch your tone, man. I'd hate to kick you while you're down but you keep pushing it. Look, I know it's hard to accept, but it's not normal or healthy to run through your entire liquor cabinet in less than a week."

"It's none of your business."

"It becomes my business when I have to take time away from my pregnant girlfriend to play nurse." Miguel holds out the bucket for Dallas to vomit. "You're going down a downward spiral, man. I'm telling you, if you keep drinking the way you're drinking, it's only going to get worse." He averts his eyes.

"You stopped going to the meetings. Brother Zulu was asking about you today. I think you attending some of the meetings could do you some good…"

"I don't want to go to the fucking meetings." Dallas groans out.

"You need to go! You owe them; you think they _liked_ patrolling your neighborhood to find the culprits who lit a cross in front of your apartment? You attending the meetings is just a token of gratitude. It's the least you could do." Miguel retorts.

"I can't. I'm hungover." Dallas says, massaging his temples.

"That's fine. The meeting's tomorrow at 8 AM. I'd better see your ass bright and early when I pick you up."

"You got to be fucking kidding me…"

"No, I'm not. I will pick you up and you'd better be ready to go. You hear me? No. Fucking. Excuses." Miguel spits. He slides the bucket at him. He makes his way to the door.

"No excuses, Dal. I mean it." Miguel says, before closing the door in a soft click. Dallas slides even further against the couch, sighing.

He might as well go.

Brother Thomas owes him four dollars, anyway.

* * *

True to his word, Miguel picks him up bright and early. He was tying the last shoe when he heard that obnoxious horn coming down his driveway.

The meeting went pretty smoothly; he helped serve kids their breakfasts, listened to many of the Panthers' correspondence with the headquarters in Oakland, and he finally gotten that four dollars Brother Thomas owed him. He was about to consider leaving when he feels a hand on my shoulder.

"Dallas, right?"

He turns. It's an elderly black man, with thick glasses and a beret perched on his wild gray curls.

"Brother Miguel has told me about your…affliction. My name is Prophet Gray." The man smiles a soft smile, holding out his hand. Dallas shakes it.

"Miguel told you about me?" Dallas asks, slightly annoyed.

"He most certainly did. He was worried about you. It's no judgment. I've been in your shoes many times, Brother. I'm not perfect."

"I don't have a problem—"

"—we always tell ourselves that. _'I don't have a problem, I just like the way it tastes_ '. ' _I don't have a problem, I can stop whenever I feel like it'_. Now, don't give me that look. I'm telling you I've heard it all before and I've _said_ it all before."

Dallas grinds his teeth in annoyance.

"I don't have time for this…"

"When you _do_ have time," Prophet Gray hands him a sheet of paper.

"I'll be waiting."

Prophet Gray walks off, leaving Dallas with the piece of paper. He reads it.

It's his number.

Dallas crams it in his pocket.

* * *

"So, what you think about my man? He good, right?" Miguel asks. Dallas drums his fingers on the dashboard.

"The fuck you tell him I had a drinking problem for?" Dallas snarled.

"Well excuse the fuck out of me. But he's a good man. Trust me on this. He helped Amara with her heroin addiction. Turned her whole life around and then she met me." Miguel replies.

"Well, what does he _do_?" Dallas asks.

"Some Witch Doctor shit. He from Haiti. Started chanting some mumbo jumbo, gave Amara a potion and boom! She couldn't even think about smack without getting sick. He's a Magic Man, Dal."

"I smell horse shit. If he's so good, how come he was an alcoholic and got cured? He did the spells on himself?" Dallas fires back. His lips pull in a smug smile.

"There's no telling with him. I think he did, or his wife put it on him and taught him everything she knows. Them Creole women, boy," Miguel twirls his finger.

"Dated one for the first time. Couldn't eat spaghetti and always checked my underwear drawer for anything missing."

"Why?"

"Date a Creole, or any woman from Louisiana. You'll see." Miguel says with a knowing laugh. They pull up to Dallas' apartment.

"You coming to the meeting, right?" Miguel asks, "Same time next week?"

"Yeah." Dallas answers. When Miguel's car peels off, he turns to get inside his apartment.

* * *

"Look, Pony, Can I…crash over at y'all place? It's kinda…lonely, over here."

Dallas clutches the phone. The empty bottle of whiskey stares back at him, mocking his slurred speech. The radio plays a love song, wrenching memories of his broken relationship with Shirley. He can't be in this apartment anymore. It's too many memories, too many reminders of what he had, what once was.

"Are you…do you want me to pick you up, Dal? Darry let me drive the car…"

"N…No. I'll come to you."

"Dal, you're three sheets to the wind. I'll come get you. Hold on…"

"Forget it, Pony. Fuck." Dallas hangs up. He tries to stand, but the blood rushes to his head too fast and he buckles. He collapses on the couch. He can't move; his body won't cooperate. He has to sit in this hell, suffer for his sins in this apartment that feels like it's smothering him.

The eviction notice is stamped on his bedroom door, a reminder of his failure as a man, as a provider, as a lover. Those angry red letters hurt his eyes; he shuts them.

His nose picks up on a sweet smell. Like someone is baking Snickerdoodles. Those things were Shirley's favorite…

Dallas swore he smelled cinnamon and sugar. He could smell her. Digging into the couch, he plucks a garment of Shirley's. It's her pen, the one that started their relationship. He wants to let go of it, throw it in the trash, but he can't. he thumbs the engraved letters of her name, trying to find comfort.

It stopped giving him comfort when he learned she wouldn't come back for her pen, no matter how much she loved it. Guess she didn't love it as much as she thought she did.

He needs a touch, a kiss, a feeling to fill the numbness.

Shirley isn't coming back.

He needs a replacement, even if it's just for one night.

* * *

A girl giggles behind him when he opens the door to his apartment. It's a dark-skinned black girl with long hair and go-go boots that smells like cigarette smoke and got a beauty mark on her thigh. Her miniskirt is hiked up to high heaven with a blouse that displayed her hard breasts.

"You sure you're good to have fun, sugar?" she asks, planting kisses on his neck.

"Get inside." Dallas bites out. The girl's smile fades slightly, but obeys. Dallas guides her into his bedroom and turns on the lamp.

"So, for a _wham-bam, thank you ma'am_ that'll be $150, suck costs $80, butt stuff will cost you—"

"Can we…sleep together?"

"Yes, I'm explaining..."

"No, not fuck." Dallas lies on his side, patting the bed.

"I just want to have someone in my arms tonight."

The girl purses her lips.

"No sex?"

"No sex."

The girl relaxes. She slides into Dallas' arms quietly, her tiny frame almost swallowed up in Dallas'. He tucks her hair away to kiss at the back of her neck. She gasps, but lets out a soft hum of approval. Dallas listens to the girl's breathing before falling asleep.

He wakes up, to find his bed empty and the cash that was supposed to go to groceries gone.

He'd never even got her name.


	14. Chapter 14: A Friend in Need

Chapter 14:

A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed

 **Harlem, New York, 1958**

" _Son, sit down for a second._ "

Those words made Dallas freeze in his tracks. He'd just gotten home from school, a bouquet of flowers he'd picked for his mother clutched in his hand.

" _Is Mom finally coming home?_ " He asks him.

Mr. Winston sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

" _Your mother…your mother is getting worse. The doctors are doing everything they can, but…_ " he shakes his head.

" _They're saying…they're saying she won't make it through the night._ "

For the first time in years, Dallas sees his father, a hardened and tough man, break down in tears.

" _We're going to…to say goodbye. Grab your coat._ "

* * *

Dallas sees a woman in what's supposed to be his mother's bed, but he can't register that woman as his mother. His mother was full of life, long dark curls falling down her back with hazel eyes that seemed to glow with warmth. Her skin was radiant and soft, not waxy and clinging to her bones. The woman in the hospital bed is gaunt, with sunken in eyes and a bald head, wearing a hospital gown two sizes too big. The hospital room reeks of chemicals, death, and sickness; it makes Dallas dizzy.

This woman isn't his mother, this woman isn't her; his mother is off somewhere, buying groceries and talking to Mrs. Jimenez about the cake recipes she wants to trade, she's brushing her hair in the bedroom, waiting for Dallas to come home and braid it for her into the two braids she likes.

He doesn't want to see this pale, gaunt, sickly, knocking on Death's door woman as his mother; it feels wrong.

She opens her eyes and Dallas sees those hazel eyes he holds so dear and he's forced to face the music.

It's her. Oh, God, it's her.

She smiles a soft smile and reaches out to touch his face; he flinches. The woman notices his fear, and lowers her hand, her smile vanishes. Mr. Winston pinches Dallas' arm, hissing in his ear, " _You go and hug your mother. Now._ "

Dallas wants to, but he's so scared; she looks so fragile, so small. He's looking at a woman who's going to die any minute and he's afraid she'll take him with her. This isn't his mother, it's not her…

He musters the strength to come to her, wrapping his arms around her. Her heartbeat becomes a steady sound in his ear, keeping him calm.

"Don't be afraid, honey. I never…I never wanted you to see me like this." She says. Dallas feels something wet drop into his hair; he registers this as tears.

"I never meant to frighten you, baby. I'm so sorry."

"Mom." Dallas slips out. His eyes are getting blurry, his throat burning and choking.

"You're going to get better." Dallas tells her.

"You're going to get better, and you're going to get out of this hospital bed and we're going to take you home and…"

"Shh…baby. Baby, look at me."

Dallas obeys and he knows he's a sorry sight; his face his red, tears falling down his face and his nose dripping with snot.

"I wish I could stay with you and your Papa, Dallas. But I can't. I'm so sorry, baby. I have to go. I have to come home. It is my time and I'm accepting it." She cries.

"You will see me again, honey. I'll always be here. I will always be by your side, even if you don't see me." She strokes his cheek.

"I'm so proud of you, Dallas. So proud."

"Mom… _Mommy_ …don't go. _Please, Mommy_ …I don't want you to go." He holds her hand there.

"I _have_ to go, Dallas. God wants me to come home."

Her hand goes limp.

"I'm so tired. So very, very tired. Honey, I'm ready to rest."

"Mom…"

"Goodnight, honey. I can't wait to see you when I wake up." She smiles softly at him. She sinks back into her bed, her eyes closed. Her breathing starts to slow down, her heart beat following suit.

Dallas can't control himself. He cries into his mother's chest, soaking her nightgown and pulling her closer.

" _Mama…Mama…_ " he sobs. Mr. Winston gently lifts his child up and away from his dying wife.

The doctors and nurses come into the room on cue, checking Mrs. Winston's wrist for a pulse. When Dallas sees them put the white sheet over his mother, he screams and struggles against his father.

" _No! No!"_

Mr. Winston holds him tighter.

" _She's gone, Dallas._ " Mr. Winston says in his ear,

" _She's gone._ "

* * *

The funeral took place in the church Marco's and Ricky's families attended. Dallas sees his mother in that casket, surrounded by flowers, notes, and gifts, and stills himself. She doesn't even look dead; she looks like she used to when she was alive. If Dallas tried hard enough, he could pretend she's sleeping.

Mr. Jimenez's best work yet.

Delilah and Ricky sits side by side Dallas, patting his back and offering him tissues to soak up his tears, but Dallas doesn't have any more to give. He's all cried out; he cried and cried until he can't cry anymore. He learned early that his tears won't be enough to bring his mother back, to reverse the events that has him sitting front and center to his mother's body in her Sunday best, lying in a pine-wood casket while his father is drowning his sorrows in alcohol with Father Finnegan.

The funeral's packed with family and friends that Dallas vaguely remembers. They all seem to enjoy coming to him, pinching his cheeks and remarking at how fine he's grown. Reckless aunts making passes at his father while the loud and obnoxious uncles eating and acting like it's a party instead of a funeral. Cousins as old as 6 months old crying in the church while Pastor Evans delivers his prayers for his mother's safe travel to heaven is enough to make a mild mannered Dallas grind his teeth in anger.

They don't belong here.

He wants them all to just disappear.

"Hey, _Hielo_."

Marco's voice makes Dallas turn around and seethe.

"At ease, Ice. I just want to let you know that if you need anything, I'm here. Okay? If you want to talk about…this? I'm here. Whatever you need, I got you. _Me escuchas_?"

"I don't want your pity."

"I never gave it to you in the first place." Marco props himself against the door after the service. The Pallbearers are going to lower her in the ground soon. Mr. Winston insisted he doesn't see it in fear of Dallas having another breakdown, so instead he sits in the children's room with his friends.

"I've dealt with this before, man. I know what you're going through…"

"Did you have to lose your mom to _fucking cancer_?" Dallas boomed. The whole room stops.

"Did you have to watch your mom die because you couldn't afford the radiation therapy and medicine? Did you have to spend countless nights comforting your dad because he has to live without his wife? _Did you_?"

"No, but…"

"Don't tell me that you know what I'm going through. Don't." Dallas storms out of the church.

* * *

Dallas haven't spoken to Marco since that day, and a part of him doesn't want to. He'd gotten thrown in the cooler for pulling a knife out on an old lady and taking her purse as his first offense. The second time, it was for smoking stolen cigarettes in the back of a hot car his friend Garrett stole. He found himself in and out of the cooler, expressing his anger through rebellion and hardness.

While he's getting familiar with the police station, Marco is excelling in academics and is the apple of the neighborhood's eye for his community service. Marco, the poster child who swore like a sailor but always brought home good grades and helps old ladies cross the street; it makes Dallas seethe with jealousy and embarrassment in himself. He makes it his mission to avoid Marco and to avoid Delilah and Ricky at all costs; he can't afford to have them see him like this.

One day, he decides to play hooky.

He sneaks out of school with a fake note with a forged signature of his father and heads out to the ice cream shop down the corner. He's craving a banana split; if he gets there fast enough he can get one before it's all gone. He greets the clerk who doesn't ask questions as long as the money is good. He pays for his ice cream and sits in the booth, his mouth watering as the man puts extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup on his treat.

"If anyone asks, Dal. Tell 'em you were helping me in the shop. Our little secret." He winks at Dallas. He smiles back. The treat is placed in front of him, a silver spoon already crammed in there. He can't wait to enjoy…

"Where you think you're going, _spic_?"

He stops himself.

"Goddammit, not this shit again." The clerk mutters under his breath. Dallas turns around.

It's Marco, head down and clutching his book-bag like his life depends on it, marching away from three white boys who are on his tail.

"I can't stand your kind around here. Taking away all the jobs, making it hard for us true Americans. Why won't you go back to where you came from?" one of them hollers out. Dallas recognizes him as Paul Sullivan, the 13-year old classmate who's from Hell's Kitchen.

"I'm from _Texas_. You mind telling me how you're going to pay for my ticket to there? Because that ticket's pretty damn expensive. I doubt your broke ass family can afford that." Marco fires back, his chin up and his eyes staring down Paul.

"You a smartass little fucker, ain't you?"

"Nah, I'm just smart. Check my report card."

Dallas sees Paul punch Marco in the mouth.

"You need to know your place, _beaner_."

Marco wipes the blood from his mouth.

"Ladies first, _potato-eater_." And he swings back, connecting with Paul's jaw. The two engage in a fist fight with Marco getting the upper hand, until Paul's friends decide to jump in and gang up on Marco.

Without thinking, Dallas bolts to the scene and yanks one of Paul's friends off Marco and starts swinging.

"C'mon, Sullivan. Since you too much of a chicken-shit to fight on your own, how 'bout you take me and Marco on?" Dallas raises his dukes. Marco looks at Dallas, looks back at Sullivan, and smirks.

"I thought you were mad at me, man. I got no business yelling at you the way I did."

Marco slurps his root beer float and snorts.

"I was never mad at you. Your mom just died, man. You were mad and you were lashing out. Is that why you've been avoiding us? Delilah talks about you all the time, now. It's driving me crazy. Pop up on her and shut her up, will ya?"

Dallas laughs. The clerk is drying off the ice cream cups, watching the two kids with a knowing smirk.

"I'm sorry, man. I was honestly embarrassed."

"By what?"

"I've been in and out of the cooler while you're out winning awards, getting good grades, and being the kid every parent dreams about. I don't want you seeing me as a failure."

Marco laughs.

"Dal, I don't care. You're still my friend whether you got one stint in the cooler or 50. I'm still the same Marco. I'm still going to hang out with you. I didn't change up. We're friends; you got my back and I got yours. When you're down, I'll pick you up. I got you, Dal. Believe that." He holds out his fist.

"Friends for life." Marco begins

"Friends for real." Dallas bumps his fist against his.

"Another round of root beer floats! Ice is back, baby!"

* * *

 **Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1968**

"Pop, I'm home." Dallas calls out in the house. Silence. He makes his way to the kitchen and sees a hastily scribbled note.

 _Date with Jolene. Be home later._

Dallas rolls his eyes and opens the fridge for a possible meal. Meatloaf courtesy of Jolene, French bread, half-empty bottle of wine, and some buttered pasta she left behind when she cooked dinner. He takes it out the fridge and prepares his dinner.

He sits in front of the TV, watching some show that has long since lost its appeal but eases his boredom. He swishes around the wine in the plastic Mickey Mouse cup, admiring the color. He downs it with the rest of the food, taking care to let out a large burp. Tonight's the night; the anniversary of his mother's death.

"This one's for you, Ma." He raises the empty wine bottle to the ceiling, chuckling. Here he is, barely making 20, drinking wine and eating like he has no house training; his mother would've slapped him silly. Maybe she wouldn't…she's much too sweet, too good for this world…

"Goddammit," he bites out. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply.

"You're probably up there with Johnny, teaching him how to waltz. You had a flair for that kind of thing, you know. Being patient and kind to those that need it. If Johnny met you before you died, he wouldn't leave your side. You'd be so perfect for him." he smiles.

He imagines Johnny waking Dallas up for breakfast, calling his mother "Ma", as she makes a hearty breakfast for the two boys. He can taste her mouthwatering pancakes, smell the citrus-y scent of her hair, hear her sing some old tune from her childhood Dallas can't name. Johnny would be the brother he always wanted and the younger son his mother always needed.

They'd be the perfect family.

The ringing phone makes Dallas snap out of his fantasy. He answers.

"Hello?"

"Long time, no see…huh, _Hielo_?"


	15. Chapter 15: Borough Check

The Color Line Chapter 15:

Borough Check

Dallas' eyes widen. He hadn't heard that nickname…in years.

"Wh-what did you just say…?"

" _Ice_. Dude, it's me, Marco. Harlem?"

"Holy shit. It _is_ you!" Dallas sits down.

"How did you…"

"Delilah found your name in the phone book. We moving down to Tulsa in a couple of months. Helps to know a few people."

"How you been? How's Ricky and them?"

"I've been good. _We've_ been good. We got so much shit to tell you, man. Harlem's changed. White folks comin' in and raisin' the rent too damn high. Tulsa is dirt cheap, from what I heard."

"It depends on where you go."

"Let me get the phone, _damn_! _Hey, Dallas_!" Delilah's shrill voice screams into Dallas' ear. Dallas laughs.

"Hey, Delilah. How's my favorite girl?" Dallas asks.

"Amazing, Dal! I got so much to tell you—"

"-Who dat is? Is that Dal? _Dallas_! My man!" Ricky exclaims over the phone.

"Y'all have no clue how good it feels to hear y'all voices, man. It's been so long." Dallas says.

" _Too_ goddamn _long_. We would've came down sooner, but…life." Delilah replies.

"We comin' down to see you in March. Mail us the address."

"I will. You know the day?"

"We won't know. We drivin'." Marco said.

"Y'all gon' drive…all the way from Harlem, to here?" Dallas asked.

"Yeah. Ricky is in a band. They offered to take us there for a gig they doin' out there." Delilah answered.

"Ricky's in a band?" Dallas asked, "What instrument he play? The tambourine?"

"Shut yo' ass up, Dal. I don't wanna hear nothing from the boy that tried to sing and broke a window." Ricky fired back.

"First of all, that was Gregory and his baseball. _I_ can sing." Dallas said.

" _Barely_!" Marco, Ricky, and Delilah shouted in unison before bursting into laughter.

"Y'all love talking shit. Fuck y'all." Dallas said.

"We sayin' it because we love you." Delilah replied.

"We leaving right now. Ricky got done packing the rest of the equipment into the van. He got a gig in California and we gotta be there. We'll see you soon."

"California? Y'all livin' the dream!"

"Like Delilah said, we got so much to tell you." Marco chuckles.

"Bye, Dal! We'll send you postcards, now!" Delilah exclaimed.

"Bye. Love y'all." Dallas answered. He hangs up after.

He lies in the couch, ruminating over the conversation.

"California," he says with a sigh.

"Fucking California."

* * *

March couldn't come fast enough.

Dallas had just cracked open his beer when he heard a knock on the door.

"Get it, son! I gotta get ready for my date with Jolene!" Dallas' father shouts from the shower. Rolling his eyes, he opens the door.

He's greeted with a light-skinned black woman with a halo of light brown curls fluffed out with flowers sticking out in every direction, wearing flowing clothes to hide her swelling belly. He sees the dotted freckles and those dark green eyes and he almost fell to his knees.

Without warning, he embraces her, burying his face into her neck, letting the tears fall. He pulls away, not even caring her flower necklace is stuck to his leather jacket.

"Long time no see, white boy." Delilah says with a toothy grin.

"Hey! What about us?" A voice calls. It's a tall dark-skinned man built like he played football with Darry, baring his muscular chest in a fringed vest and velvet bell-bottom jeans and boots. His afro extends to thick sideburns that stop at his cheeks, a feather earring dangling from his ear. He puts down his guitar and steps to Dallas.

"Come on, man. Come here." He pulls Dallas into a tight hug around his shoulders.

"Don't forget me."

A medium-build man with copper skin and long ringlet curls leans against a van. He wears a black t-shirt with jeans and boots. He wears brightly-colored shades, thick sideburns that extends to a moustache and beard. He crosses his arms, the glint of a wedding ring caught from the sun. He pushes himself off the van and struts toward Dallas with a friendly smile.

He hugged him the tightest, patting his back with heavy-handed pats.

All three embrace Dallas in a group hug, embracing him in warmth.

"We've missed you, brother." Ricky says.

* * *

"So, what you been up to?"

Dallas looks up from his cup. Delilah stares back at him, his hand enveloped by her small ones. She smiles, urging him to answer her question.

They're in Ricky's band's van, drinking herbal tea and inhaling the thick smoke of marijuana from the joint Marco made. Ricky is tuning his guitar while Marco is arguing with a bandmate about finances in the front seats. Delilah sits cross-legged from Dallas, her pregnant belly poking through her clothes. Dallas keeps focusing on her belly, feeling slight disappointment but can't pinpoint why.

"Dallas?" Delilah asks.

"Oh! Uh…I've been…up to the same ol', same ol'. I work at some construction site miles from here. I work, come home, have a beer, then go to sleep to do it all over again. Not much." Dallas answers. His cheeks burn from embarrassment.

"Well, I've went to college for a while, dropped out. Got married-" Delilah brandishes her modest wedding ring, "—and expecting. I think it's a girl. She's so excited to come out she's been kicking up a storm!" she laughs.

"Married, huh?" Dallas asks.

"Who's the lucky guy?"

Delilah giggles.

"Marco. We've known each other for so long and been through so much, and, well, we fell in love. Life is funny, sometimes."

" _Marco?_ " Dallas repeats in disbelief, not believing his ears. Delilah is like a little sister; hearing her with Marco…feels strange.

"Ricky had a fit about it when he found out. You shoulda seen him. He was ready to fight him out on the street!" Delilah laughed.

"But eventually, he got over it. Marco treats me nice, if you wondering. I've never been happier. He's so excited for the baby; he wants to call it Marco Jr. if it's a boy. I'm going to call _her_ Willow." She lifts her shirt. She guides Dallas' hand to touch.

"She's kicking. You feel it?"

A fluttering sensation presses against Dallas' hand and he jolts his hand away.

"Don't be scared, Dal. She don't mean no harm. I think she likes you and wants to meet you." Delilah chuckles. She guides his hand back and presses deeper. The fluttering stops, and Dallas could swear he feels a tiny hand touch his palm.

He lets out a shuddering breath he didn't know he kept in.

"She's happy." Delilah whispers. Without thinking, Dallas' hand moves around her swollen belly in soft strokes. He pulls his hand away, turning his head away. Silently, he makes his way out the van and into his home.

Delilah is with Marco.

Delilah married Marco.

Delilah is carrying Marco's child.

He feels rage built in his chest but he suppresses it.

He has to be happy for her. There's no reason for him to be angry. She's like a baby sister, he wants the best for her.

So why does the voice inside his head hiss, _"That should've been_ _ **your**_ _baby."_?


	16. Chapter 16: Candid Moment

Chapter 16:

Candid Moment

He kissed Delilah, once.

He doesn't remember every detail, but he did remember the look in her eyes, the way their hands melded together, and her kissing back. They kissed under the shadiest tree in a secluded park on a summers' afternoon, the day he had to leave. They lied under the tree, laughing and running their fingers through each other's hair after.

It ended with her head lying on his chest, listening to his fluttering heartbeat before they heard their parents call out for them. They ran home so fast Dallas swore his lungs leapt out of his chest when they made it to the moving van unnoticed.

They never stopped holding hands.

* * *

"Dallas? Dallas, hello…you hear us talking to you?"

Dallas snaps back to reality. Marco, Ricky, Delilah, Jolene, and his father are staring back at him. they're gathered around the kitchen table, eating dinner.

He coughs.

"I'll, uh…I need to go catch some shut-eye. Night."

"Dal, it's early—"

"—goodnight." He's already up the steps, slamming his door shut.

 _Delilah smiles against his lips. Those freckles burning themselves into his memory…_

He runs his fingers through his hair.

 _Freshly flat-ironed hair puffing at the roots pressed against his chest, the shell of an ear hearing his heart slam against his ribcage. He tries to flatten the hair anyway…_

He rips open his dresser and plucks a cigarette.

" _I wish you was my girl." He tells her. She looks up and smiles._

" _I wish I was your girl, too."_

"Fuck," he breathes out. He takes another drag.

His door is being knocked.

"Dallas, open the door. What's going on with you?" Delilah says through the door.

"I don't want you in here. I'm not opening the door." Dallas barks.

"Look, this attitude was cute back in grade school, but it's not cute now. We were cool a minute ago, and then you just…got cold. Talk to me, Dal. We've been friends since forever. You can tell me anything…"

"Go away, Delilah. I ain't opening this fucking door." Dallas takes another puff.

Silence.

"Okay, man."

Footsteps fade away.

* * *

"Miguel, can I ask you a serious question?"

Miguel slid out from under his customer's car, grease smeared onto his work uniform. Dallas tossed his friend a rag to wipe his face.

"Yeah?" Miguel asked.

"My friends came to Tulsa the other day, and…Delilah was there. We had a thing back in the day, now she's married with a baby on the way." Dallas replied.

"Okay, what's the problem?"

"The problem is I'm still sweet on her. Had a thing for her since we was kids. She off and married…Marco. Our brother."

"So…you jealous?"

"I ain't jealous, I'm just trying to…"

"You jealous, man. Ain't nothing wrong with that. But you need to get over it." Miguel plucks a tool from the toolbox.

" _My_ opinion is that you need to leave that alone. Don't even think about it. As far as you know? None of that shit back then happened. You lie to yourself, suck it up, and you go about your business as is. You dig?"

"Miguel—"

" _You dig_?" Miguel enunciates, an edge to his tone.

"Alright, man."

"Good. Now finish working on Mr. Jenkins' car. He wants it ready by five."

* * *

Dallas comes home from work, wiping the remaining grease off his fingers. The van is nowhere to be found. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"Pop! I'm home!" he calls out. Silence. Must be out on a date with Jolene again. He shucks off his work clothes, grabs a towel from the cabinet, and makes his way to the shower.

The hot water and soap melted away Dallas' stress. He doesn't have to worry about Delilah, he doesn't have to worry about his friends. All of his problems vanished…

"Hello?"

He freezes.

Turning the tap off, he wraps a towel around his waist tightly and waits.

"Mr. Winston? Is that you?"

Dallas curses to himself. Opening the bathroom door, he sprints to his bedroom and slams the door.

Behind him he hears a shriek, and as if on cue, the towel he secured so tightly falls to the floor. Turning around, he's face to face with Delilah, on his bed, clutching his blankets with a look of pure horror. Her eyes silently zero in on the space between his legs with a raised eyebrow and Dallas immediately covers himself with his hands, body flushing red like a Bing cherry.

Silence is so thick one could cut it with a knife, Dallas frozen in place like a deer in the headlights.

Then, laughter.

Delilah starts to snicker, then giggle, and eventually full on laughter. She's laughing so hard tears leak from her eyes.

"Fuck you, man!" he tells her before running out of his room in a frustrated huff, Delilah's screams of laughter following him.

* * *

"So I woke up when I heard them pipes running, right? I got so scared. I asked, 'Mr. Winston, that you?'. No answer. Then here come a white flash and I screamed! And then that's when I realized Dallas _mooned me_! You shoulda been there! I saw his lily-white ass on _full display_!" Delilah said to Ricky, who's choking on his grits. Dallas sits in the chair, ears burning from embarrassment. Marco wipes a tear from his eye.

"The one moment we head out somewhere we miss out on a picture-perfect moment." Marco says.

"Ha, ha. Yuk it up. Fuck y'all." Dallas says. He crams a cigarette in his mouth and lights up.

"C'mon, man. That shit was funny. You gotta admit." Ricky adds, patting Dallas' shoulder.

"It coulda been worse. She coulda saw your dick." Marco says, taking a smoke. Dallas' face gets redder and Delilah giggles even harder.

If only they knew.


	17. Chapter 17: Georgia (Pt 1)

Georgia On My Mind

(Pt 1)

It's summer.

Dallas' wild blonde hair fans out the window of the band's van, watching signs pass by in green and white blurs. Ricky tunes his guitar, his bandmate Lonnie going over his vocals, the soothing tones giving Dallas a sense of calm he hasn't had since…

He won't think of her. It's been two years.

Instead he focuses on the landscapes, the beautiful women in love vans with hair blowing in the breeze just like him. They smile and giggle at him, but their smiles don't meet his eyes. Getting bored, he ducks his head in and grabs the joint lying in the ashtray and lights up.

He'd been gone from Tulsa since…he doesn't quite remember. Days sloshed into nights, hours either drip like molasses or zip past him depending on the drug of choice that was on the menu that night. He does know they're getting closer; the dry climate of Tulsa got nothing on this thicker, humid heat.

"Hey Ulysses! Check the map again, man." Dallas tells one of the bandmates. Ulysses straightens his glasses and unfurls the map.

"See…we drove past…uhh…" Ulysses pokes his head out, "I think we just missed our exit."

The band groans.

"Donald! Ulysses say you missed the exit!" Lonnie gripes.

"I know where the hell I'm going! You gon' trust Four Eyes or you gon' trust the nigga with 20/20?" Donald fires back. The men suck their teeth and curse.

"Fuck outta here, kid. You know Donald know the safe route." Ricky chimes in.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. We gon' get there in the same time. I been to ATL plenty o' times. Got family out there. We gon' get there. Trust." Donald says.

"We ain't got much of a choice. You our only ride!" Jim adds.

"Get us lost I'm putting my size 14-foot up yo' ass!" Lonnie warns, peeling off his sneaker. Dallas gags.

"I don't know what's gon' kill us first. Donald or them kickin' ass feet." Dallas says, pinching his nose.

This is going to be a long ride.

* * *

Night fell. They'd been driving for six days straight, each band member taking turns. When they touched down in Birmingham, Alabama was when Dallas had to park the van and rest.

"Alright, y'all." Dallas yawned.

"Think it's time we hit the hay. Found an inn 'cross the street. I'll see how much for a room. Won't be long." Dallas says, before sliding out of the driver's seat and making his way to the inn.

The inn was sleazy, to put it nicely. The type to not ask any questions, the type Dallas likes. He enters the front lobby and slams on the bell, exhaustion making his movements snappier than usual. An older white woman shuffles her way to the front where he's at.

"Yeah?" she asks.

"Need a couple rooms for me and my friends. We could do a three-room three-bedroom each kind of deal. We got the money for it." Dallas answers, slicking his hair back the best he could. Women like her are the type he'd feel ashamed to be shirtless and barefoot in front of as a first impression, but he's too tired and hungry to care at this point.

"Where your friends?" she asks. Her face sets Dallas on edge; she looks at him like he's trash, scum on the bottom of her cheap shoes.

"They're coming," he grits out. The woman looks at him, takes a puff at her glasses, wipes them, places them back on her face and, in a tone that would be used to discuss the weather, asks, "your friends wouldn't be them niggers hiding out in that van 'cross the street, now would it?"

"'Scuse me?" Dallas replies.

"C'mon, buddy. I saw you and them niggers a mile away. We don't serve them and we don't serve you, _race traitor_."

"Listen here you old, withered bitch…"

"Get your nigger-lovin' ass up off my property 'fore I'm call the 'thorities. They love grabbing some new _ornaments_ to _decorate_ our trees. Your money no good here, and if you knew what was good for you you'd haul ass up outta here and never come back." she says.

Before Dallas could respond, she spits in his face.

Time froze for a second, Dallas stuck between processing what had just taken place and the rage coiling in his gut. Every fiber in his body told him to smack this woman right where she stood, put all the strength he had in his body to knock that bitch to the ground. He stared her down, fighting his raising hand to strike her before lowering it.

"You better thank God Almighty my mother told me not to put my hands on a woman, 'cause I beat the _piss_ outta you, _cunt_." Dallas tells her, his voice low enough for her and only her to hear it. He backs away, wiping the spit off his face and smearing it on her wall. He storms out of the inn, slams the door when he's in the van, and starts the car. The band wakes up, startled and demanding answers.

"We need to get the fuck outta here. Don't say shit. We're gonna keep drivin' till we in Georgia. You hear?" he barks, hating how his voice is shaking.

"Dal, what's—"

Dallas is already speeding down the road.

* * *

 **AN: So, this is pretty intense, wouldn't you agree? If you guys had been up to date, you'd know that Shirley moved to Atlanta (allegedly). Where am I going with this? Atlanta as in Atlanta, GEORGIA, where Ricky's band and Dallas are heading to...?**

 **So, if you guys liked Shirley and wanted to know about her arrival, she's coming next chapter for a reunion with Dallas after 2 years. But it won't be the reunion you're expecting!**

 **The last chapter was some form of fluff because in future chapters, shit is about to get dark. Not everyone is going to get a happy ending because it's real life (or, as real life as a fanfiction could possibly get.). So hold on tight, grab your popcorn and safety blanket, because shit is about to hit the fan. Get ready. :)**

 **-Zighana, OUT.**


	18. Chapter 18: Georgia (Pt 2)

Georgia On My Mind

(Pt. 2)

Dallas drove from sun down to sun up, zipping down the highway and hitting the exits when need be. He was angry, blood boiling so hard his face is red. The band tried to pry out what made him angry enough to speed off the way he did, but trying to get information out of him was like pulling teeth. Even Ricky couldn't reach him; his words went through one ear and out the other.

He drove until the gas tank hit 'Empty' and they were on the border of Georgia. When it was time for the gas attendant to fill up the gas, Donald snatched the keys out of Dallas' hands and told him to cool off in the back.

Dallas went to the gas station bathroom, splashing water on his face to quell the burning from anger. He'd thought the only woman that could get him mad enough to strike her was Sylvia; the fact that the woman was old enough to be his mother (grandmother if he's being rude about it) was just another layer of shock. That hatred, that look like he was nothing…

He'd gotten looks like that when he was with Shirley. Men, women, even a few children, recoiled in disgust when Dallas walked down the street holding her hand. When Shirley tried to slip her hand out of the embrace, he only held it tighter.

People got a whole lot of nerve hating someone for shit that don't mean a goddamn thing.

"Bitch," he said at the mirror. That old hag better thank her lucky stars she was a woman…

Dallas slept in the back of the van while Donald drove. He dreamt about riding horses with Johnny, riding off into the prairie like cowboys. His mother and father sitting on the back porch, watching them with a smile. He dreamt about Shirley again, her belly swollen with his child. They walked down the streets of New York and no one batted an eye. He even dreamt about Delilah, her green eyes digging into his skull. Sylvia flies across, her English accent still getting him hot under the collar as she writhes on top of him in a haze of red light and black shadows, the words "Adulterer" and "Shame" scrawled into her chest as she moans out his name.

They spin around his head so fast he's dizzy, collapsing on the floor and screaming when hands shoot up and grab him, trying to pull him under. Johnny, Shirley, Delilah, and Sylvia, all chanting his name as he's sinking down like quicksand, screaming for help…

"Dallas…"

"Dallas…"

"Dallas!"

Water is splashed on him. He sputters and coughs, hastily wiping the water from his face.

"The fuck, Jim!"

"You need to wake up. You been talking in your sleep and it's getting weird. Might wanna grab a towel for your little…problem." Jim says, eyes downcast on Dallas' frame. Dallas looks down and blushes, snatching a random shirt and placing it over his crotch.

"Think about baseball, a dead puppy, _something_. I'll be outside." Jim adds, eyeing him with both amusement and repulsion.

When Dallas slipped into some new jeans and socks, he sees Donald at a payphone, talking into it with hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. He bursts into a bellied-up laugh and hangs up.

"We got a place to stay the night. My Auntie Marlowe got an extra room and can squeeze us in." he tells the crew.

"You ain't told us about no Auntie Marlowe. How far is she?" Ulysses asks.

"She located three blocks from where our gig at. We ain't got no more money to spend and I know y'all tired of sleeping in this funky ass van. She cool, man. Chill." Donald replies.

"She even cooking dinner right now. If we get there, we get a hot meal, a shower, and a place to sleep. Our gig is tomorrow. C'mon."

"I guess. I could use a hot plate." Ulysses replies, rubbing his stomach.

"We've been on a steady diet of chips, beer, and tea. We could use some real food."

* * *

Dallas finds himself at a cramped dinner table, tearing into a hunk of roast beef and shoveling carrots and potatoes in his mouth while a kind-hearted black woman eyes him silently, her judgment burning holes into his face.

"Seems to me you guys have quite the appetite." She says, her mouth making a thin smile.

"You don't know the half, Auntie. Been on the road driving like he—crazy." Donald replies, gulping down his drink. Dallas clears his entire plate and downs another glass of juice.

"That food was fu—" all eyes glare him down, "—It was very delicious. Thanks for having me over for dinner, ma'am." He finishes. The woman sniffs and nods her head.

"Why thank you, young man. The food was more for my nephew, but my husband won't be home till morning and I made too much food to begin with." She adds. She grabs the plates and makes her way to the sink, Donald picking the pot roast from his teeth with a toothpick.

"Hey, Auntie. Where my cousin at?"

"She's working graveyard tonight. Nicholas is fast asleep, so you best keep quiet. I don't want him bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this late in the night." She cocks her head to the corridor adjacent to the dining room.

"Where we sleeping?" Ulysses asks.

"Spare room next to the bathroom, two doors down on the left. You can't miss it." She says over her shoulder.

"Let me help." Dallas offers, grabbing some of the dishes to wash.

"You're awful kind, but I got it. I don't like anyone else touching my china. Especially from folks that smell like outside. Brings bad luck." She says, a smirk ghosting her lips. Dallas, taking the hint, retreats back to go find the room to throw down his bags.

He knows it's two doors down, but a soft light catches his eye to his right. His peripheral catches an open door, showing a crib adjacent to a pink bed. Without thinking, his feet make his way inside the room and towards the crib. Holding in a breath, he peeks inside the crib.

It's a boy, no older than two, fast asleep on his side, a dinosaur blanket set covering his small body. He's got honey blonde ringlets framing his face, thick eyelashes, rosy cheeks and the softest snore that stirred something in Dallas' gut. His finger tucks away a silky ringlet, his throat catching. He leaves the baby like he's been burned. He takes in the room instead, trying to take his mind off the fact that he is where he shouldn't be. Posters of a college he knows nothing about plastered all over the walls, photos of family and prayers graced the dresser that's stuck between girlhood and motherhood with child-like lipsticks and diapers scattered across it. The mother's bed appears to haven't been made in days, the sheets clinging onto one side of the mattress and blankets tousled and messy. There appeared to be a book hiding in the corner of a pillow.

This is his cue to leave. It's time to get out of this woman's room and not intrude any further…

He picks up the book.

It's decorative; pink and white lace on the front and back cover, with the lock securing the pages. Dangling from the book, tied in a silk ribbon, is a key to the lock.

Taking the key, he unlocks the book.

It's just a peek, he tells himself.

"Dallas! Dallas, where is you?" Ricky's voice hisses. He jolts, the diary falling on the mattress, the key mocking him with the nightlight catching a glint of it. Snatching the diary, he snaps it shut and tucks it back under the pillow and leaves the room.

He lied in bed at night, crammed on the floor with his bedmates, staring at the ceiling and reflecting on what he'd done. He tried to read someone's diary.

He never read diaries. Not since he'd read Sylvia's when they were together; he found out she was cheating when she made the bright idea to leave it wide open for him to read. When he confronted her about it, she was more upset that he read her diary than anything.

He should let it go, but everything in his body is screaming at him to read it. It's just a peek, he's bored and no one is going to know about it.

Just one little peek.

Dallas found himself back in the lit room, the toddler fast asleep and none the wiser. The diary in his hands, he unlocks it.

When he puts it to the night light for better illumination, he freezes.

This handwriting…

This handwriting looks an awful lot like Shirley's.

WHACK.

A strong force cracks him upside the face so hard his head jerks to the side. Seeing stars, he turns his head to face the source of the strike.

Standing before him, angry and spiteful, is Shirley.

He knows those shapely legs and doe-like eyes anywhere.

Her afro has been replaced with long cornrow braids that have beads at the ends. She wears large earrings, colored glasses, and green nails.

"Put. It. Down." She says. She readies her purse for another swing, and Dallas immediately drops the book.

"Shirley," Dallas starts.

She freezes.

"Dallas…" she says, her voice softens.

Dallas cuts her off, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"I never thought I'd see you again." He says into her hair. He pulls away and strokes her braids.

"I really love your hair like this." He adds.

"How did you…" Shirley starts.

"My bandmate got an auntie that lives here—"

"—bandmate?"

"It's a long story." Dallas cups Shirley's cheeks.

"I've missed you. I have so much to tell you."

"Dallas…"

"What?"

"You have to stop. You're waking up Nicholas." She gestures to the toddler stirring in his sleep. She strokes his cheeks, and the toddler calms down and resumes his deep sleep.

"Is he your little brother? Cousin?" Dallas asks. Shirley stills herself, takes a deep breath and in an even voice says,

"He's my _son_ , Dallas."


	19. Chapter 19: Georgia (pt 3)

Georgia On My Mind

(Pt. 3)

Time froze.

"Your...son." Dallas repeats. He sits down on the bed beside her, Shirley following. Nicholas, snoring softly, is none the wiser.

"Yes, he's my son."

"How old is he." His words slipped before he could catch them.

She hesitates, wringing the fabric of her skirt. Dallas grabs her hand to stop her.

"Two." Shirley replies.

"When's his birthday?"

"Dallas..."

 _"Is he mine?"_ He chokes out.

Silence.

Shirley averts her eyes, fiddling with her collar.

"I...I wish he was. But, you don't have _green eyes_."

His heart sinks to his stomach.

"Were you cheating on me...?"

"No. _God no_. I loved you too much." Shirley's voice cracks.

"Do you remember... _New Years' Eve_?"

He stiffens. Shirley's screams ring in his ears, his eyes replaying seeing her beaten and naked...

"No...Oh, God. No..." Dallas breaks into a sob, head in his hands.

"I prayed. I prayed and prayed to God that he would be yours, until he opened his eyes. He had _his_ eyes. The eyes of that _monster..."_

"I'll kill him. I swear to God I'll find him and kill him..." he snarls. He rocks back and forth, fists balled up. Shirley strokes his back, soothing the roar in his belly.

"Don't. I've...I've made peace with it. I have Nicholas. He's the only good that's come out of this." Her nails stroke his curls.

"I learned the week before we broke up. I didn't want to tell you just yet. We were going through hard times..."

"I would've made it work. _We_ would've made it work."

"Dallas..."

"A boy. A baby boy..." he chuckles.

"I've always wanted a boy." he adds.

"Dallas, I think we need to stop this conversation before it could go further." Shirley squeezes his hand.

"It's over between us. What's done is done. I have a son, now..."

"We could be a family." Dallas interjects.

"I'll be a great father, I'll raise him as my own. We can...Shirley, I _love_ you. I _still_ love you. I spent two years thinking and hoping I'd see you again and beg you to take me back. I think about what could've been."

"You know we could never be together. You know what happened."

"The world is changing. People are changing, there's hope-"

"Dallas, stop. I don't think us being together is a possibility. What _we_ went through, what _I_ went through, that should be enough to tell you the world isn't changing."

"Shirley, it's getting better. I promise. I swear on my mother's grave I'm not the man you dated back then. I'm older, wiser, and trust me," Dallas cups her cheek, "I'll be a better man the second time around."

Shirley pauses, staring into Dallas' eyes. Dallas inhales when her hands grasp his, her thumb stroking the palm.

His eyes flash towards the future; Shirley, pregnant, rubbing her belly while Nicholas and their daughter run across the yard of the big house he'd bought, her diamond ring shining in the sun. He can almost feel the pelt of rice when they leave the church as man and wife.

"I still love you too." Shirley whispers. He nuzzles into her hand.

"Let's try again. Please." He's begging now, clutching on her hand like a lifeline.

"I..." Shirley starts, but stops herself. Her hand slides out of his grasp.

"I think you should leave. Now."

Dallas deflates. Casting his eyes downward, he nods his head.

"Goodnight, Shirley."

Shirley kisses him chastely on the lips.

"Goodbye, Dallas."

* * *

Dallas sits in the back of the van, eyes glued to the window that shows Shirley in her room. She's writing, pen furiously scribbling away.

The engine roars to life. He heads Donald say his goodbyes and the car pulls out of the driveway, his face still glued to the house until it's a speck on the horizon.

"You alright, man?" Ulysses asks Dallas.

"Yeah," he answers. Clutched in his hand, was the teddy bear he'd stolen from Shirley's room.

* * *

 **AN: Nicholas was the OC I'd made for my old story "Francine" about Dallas' daughter interviewing him about his tumultuous relationship with a jazz singer who's afflicted with bipolar disorder. The story has been put on the rocks since 2012 and I've yet to get back to it. I just might scrap it altogether and save that story or plot with another set of characters. Just a head-nod to my old story lol.**

 **That wraps up the end of Georgia. Now, on to the future! Lol**


End file.
